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Over  the  River 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 
Published  by   William  Heinemann  Lid. 
VILLA  RUBEIN,  AND  OTHER 

STORIES 

THE   ISLAND  PHARISEES 
THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY 
THE  COUNTRY  HOUSE 
FRATERNITY 
THE   PATRICIAN 
THE   DARK   FLOWER 
THE  FREELANDS 
BEYOND 
FIVE  TALES 

SAINT'S  PROGRESS 
IN  CHANCERY 

TO    LET 

THE  WHITE  MONKEY 
THE  SILVER  SPOON 
SWAN   SONG 
ON  FORSYTE  'CHANGE 
MAID   IN    WAITING 
FLOWERING  WILDERNESS 

THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 
A  MODERN  COMEDY 
CARAVAN 

A  COMMENTARY 

A  MOTLEY 

THE  INN  OF  TRANQUILLITY 

THE  LITTLE  MAN,  AND  OTHER 

SATIRES 
A   SHEAF 
ANOTHER   SHEAF 
TATTERDEMALION 
THE   BURNING  SPEAR 
CAPTURES 
CASTLES   IN   SPAIN 
TWO  FORSYTE  INTERLUDES 

MOODS,   SONGS,   AND  DOGGERELS 
VERSES  NEW  AND  OLD 


ADDRESSES  IN  AMERICA 


MEMORIES.    Illustrated  by  Maud  Earl 
AWAKENING.     Illustrated  by   R.   H. 
Sauter 

Issued  by  Duckworth   6"  Co. 
PLAYS:  Eight  Vols. 
COMPLETE  PLAYS:  One  Vol. 


Over  the  River 


By 
John  Galsworthy 


The  Ryerson  Press 
Toronto 


pp. 


0% 


PRINTED  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN  AT  The  Windmill  Press 

KINGSWOOD,  SURREY 


TO 

Rudolf  and  Viola  Sauter 


OVER  THE  RIVER    • 

CHAPTER  I 

CLARE,  who  for  seventeen  months  had  been  the  wife  of 
Sir  Gerald  Corven  of  the  Colonial  Service,  stood  on  the 
boat  deck  of  an  Orient  liner  in  the  River  Thames,  waiting 
for  it  to  dock.  It  was  ten  o'clock  of  a  mild  day  in  October, 
but  she  wore  a  thick  tweed  coat,  for  the  voyage  had  been 
hot.  She  looked  pale — indeed,  a  little  sallow — but  her  clear 
brown  eyes  were  fixed  eagerly  on  the  land  and  her  slightly 
touched-up  lips  were  parted,  so  that  her  face  had  the  vivid- 
ness to  which  it  was  accustomed.  She  stood  alone,  until 
a  voice  said: 

"OhI  here  you  arel"  and  a  young  man,  appearing  from 
behind  a  boat,  stood  beside  her.  Without  turning,  she 
said: 

"Absolutely  perfect  dayl  It  ought  to  be  lovely  at  home." 
"I  thought  you'd  be  staying  in  Town  for  a  night  at  least; 
and  we  could  have  had  a  dinner  and  theatre.  Won't  you?" 
"My  dear  young  man,  I  shall  be  met." 
"Perfectly  damnable,  things  coming  to  an  endl" 
"Often  more  damnable,  things  beginning." 
He  gave  her  a  long  look,  and  said  suddenly: 
"Clare,  you  realise,  of  course,  that  I  love  you?" 
She  nodded.   "Yes." 
"But  you  don't  love  me?" 
"Wholly  without  prejudice." 

"I  wish — I  wish  you  could  catch  fire  for  a  moment." 
"I  am  a  respectable  married  woman,  Tony." 

"Coming  back  to  England  because " 

"Of  the  climate  of  Ceylon." 

He  kicked  at  the  rail.  "Just  as  it's  getting  perfect.  I've 
not  said  anything,  but  I  know  that  your — that  Corven " 


2  O  VE  R     THE     RIVER 

Ckre  lifted  her  eyebrows,  and  he  was  silent;  then  both 
looked  at  the  shore,  becoming  momentarily  more  and 
more  a  consideration. 

When  two  young  people  have  been  nearly  three  weeks 
together  on  board  a  ship,  they  do  not  know  each  other  half 
so  well  as  they  think  they  do.  In  the  abiding  inanity  of  a 
life  when  everything  has  stopped  except  the  engines,  the 
water  slipping  along  the  ship's  sides,  and  the  curving  of  the 
sun  in  the  sky,  their  daily  chair-to-chair  intimacy  gathers  a 
queer  momentum  and  a  sort  of  lazy  warmth.  They  know 
that  they  are  getting  talked  about,  and  do  not  care.  After 
all,  they  cannot  get  off  the  ship,  and  there  is  nothing  else  to 
do.  They  dance  together,  and  the  sway  of  the  ship, 
however  slight,  favours  the  closeness  of  their  contacts. 
After  ten  days  or  so  they  settle  down  to  a  life  together, 
more  continuous  than  that  of  marriage,  except  that  they 
still  spend  their  nights  apart.  And  then,  all  of  a  sudden, 
the  ship  stops,  and  they  stop,  and  there  is  a  feeling,  at  least 
on  one  side,  perhaps  on  both,  that  stocktaking  has  been 
left  till  too  late.  A  hurried  vexed  excitement,  not  un- 
pleasurable,  because  suspended  animation  is  at  an  end, 
invades  their  faculties;  they  are  faced  with  the  real  equation 
of  land  animals  who  have  been  at  sea. 

Clare  broke  the  silence. 

"You've  never  told  me  why  you're  called  Tony  when 
your  name  is  James." 

"That  is  why.  I  wish  you'd  be  serious,  Clare;  we  haven't 
much  time  before  the  darned  ship  docks.  I  simply  can't 
bear  the  thought  of  not  seeing  you  every  day." 

Clare  gave  him  a  swift  look,  and  withdrew  her  eyes  to  the 
shore  again.  'How  cleanl'  she  was  thinking.  He  had, 
indeed,  a  clean  oval-shaped  brown  face,  determined,  but 
liable  to  good  humour,  with  dark  grey  eyes  inclined  to 
narrow  with  his  thoughts,  and  darkish  hair;  and  he  was  thin 
and  active. 

He  took  hold  of  a  button  of  her  coat. 


OVERTHERIVER  3 

"You  haven't  said  a  word  about  yourself  out  there, 
but  you  aren't  happy,  I  know." 

"I  dislike  people  who  talk  about  their  private  lives." 

"Look!"  he  put  a  card  into  her  hand:  "That  club  always 
finds  me." 

She  read: 

MR.  JAMES  BERNARD  GROOM, 

The  Coffee  House, 

St.  James*  Street. 

"Isn't  the  Coffee  House  very  out  of  date?" 

"Yes,  but  it's  still  rather  'the  thing.'  My  Dad  put  me 
down  when  I  was  born." 

"I  have  an  uncle  by  marriage  who  belongs Sir 

Lawrence  Mont,  tall  and  twisty  and  thin;  you'll  know  him 
by  a  tortoiseshell-rimmed  eyeglass." 

"I'll  look  out  for  him." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  yourself  in  England?" 

"Hunt  a  job.  That's  more  than  one  man's  work,  it 
seems." 

"What  sort  of  job?" 

"Anything  except  schoolmastering  and  selling  things  on 
commission." 

"But  does  anybody  ever  get  anything  else  nowadays?" 

"No.  It's  a  bad  look-out.  What  I'd  like  would  be  an 
estate  agency,  or  something  to  do  with  horses." 

"Estates  and  horses  are  both  dying  out." 

"I  know  one  or  two  racing  men  rather  well.  But  I 
expect  I  shall  end  as  a  chauffeur.  Where  are  you  going  to 
stay?" 

"With  my  people.  At  first,  anyway.  If  you  still  want  to 
see  me  when  you've  been  home  a  week,  Condaford 
Grange,  Oxfordshire,  will  find  me." 

"Why  did  I  ever  meet  you?"  said  the  young  man,  with 
sudden  gloom. 

A 


4  OVER    THE    RIVER 

"Thank  you." 

"Oh!  you  know  what  I  mean.  God!  she's  casting  anchor. 
Here's  the  tender!  Oh!  Clare!" 

"Sir?" 

"Hasn't  it  meant  anything  to  you?" 

Clare  looked  at  him  steadily  before  answering. 

"Yes.  But  I  don't  know  if  it  will  ever  mean  any  more. 
If  it  doesn't,  thank  you  for  helping  me  over  a  bad  three 
weeks." 

The  young  man  stood  silent,  as  only  those  can  be  silent 
whose  feelings  are  raging  for  expression.  .  .  . 

The  beginnings  and  endings  of  all  human  undertakings 
are  untidy:  the  building  of  a  house,  the  writing  of  a  novel, 
the  demolition  of  a  bridge,  and,  eminently,  the  finish  of  a 
voyage.  Clare  landed  from  the  tender  in  the  usual  hurly- 
burly,  and,  still  attended  by  young  Croom,  came  to  rest  in 
the  arms  of  her  sister. 

"Dinny!  How  sweet  of  you  to  face  this  bally-hooley! 
My  sister,  Dinny  Cherrell — Tony  Croom.  I  shall  be  all 
right  now,  Tony.  Go  and  look  after  your  own  things." 

"I've  got  Fleur's  car,"  said  Dinny.  "What  about  your 
trunks?" 

"They're  booked  through  to  Condaford." 

"Then  we  can  go  straight  off." 

The  young  man,  going  with  them  to  the  car,  said  'Good- 
bye' with  a  jauntiness  which  deceived  no  one;  and  the  car 
slid  away  from  the  dock. 

Side  by  side  the  sisters  looked  at  each  other,  a  long  and 
affectionate  scrutiny;  and  their  hands  lay,  squeezed  together, 
on  the  rug. 

"Well,  ducky!"  said  Dinny,  at  last.  "Lovely  to  see  you! 
Am  I  wrong  to  read  between  the  lines?" 

"No.  I'm  not  going  back  to  him,  Dinny." 

"No,  never,  non?" 

"No,  never,  non!" 


OVER     THE     RIVER  5 

"Oh!  dear!  Poor  darling!" 

"I  won't  go  into  it,  but  it  became  impossible."  Clare 
was  silent,  then  added  suddenly,  with  a  toss  back  of 
her  head:  "Quite  impossible!" 

"Did  he  consent  to  your  coming?" 

Clare  shook  her  head.  "I  slipped  off.  He  was  away.  I 
wirelessed  him,  and  wrote  from  Suez." 

There  was  another  silence.  Then  Dinny  squeezed  her 
hand  and  said: 

"I  was  always  afraid  of  it." 

"The  worst  of  it  is  I  haven't  a  penny.  Is  there  anything 
in  hats  now,  Dinny?" 

"  'All  British'  hats— I  wonder." 

"Or,  perhaps,  I  could  breed  dogs — bull  terriers;  what 
d'you  think?" 

"I  don't  at  present.  We'll  enquire." 

"How  are  things  at  Condaford?" 

"We  rub  on.  Jean  has  gone  out  to  Hubert  again,  but  the 
baby's  there — just  a  year  old  now.  Cuthbert  Conway 
Cherrell.  I  suppose  we  shall  call  him  'Cuffs.'  He's  rather  a 
duck." 

"Thank  God  I  haven't  that  complication!  Certain 
things  have  their  advantages."  Her  face  had  the  hardness 
of  a  face  on  a  coin. 

"Have  you  had  any  word  from  him?" 

"No,  but  I  shall,  when  he  realises  that  I  mean  it." 

"Was  there  another  woman?" 

Clare  shrugged. 

Again  Dinny's  hand  closed  on  hers. 

"I'm  not  going  to  make  a  song  of  my  affairs,  Dinny." 

"Is  he  likely  to  come  home  about  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  won't  see  him  if  he  does." 

"But,  darling,  you'll  be  hopelessly  hung  up." 

"Oh!  don't  let's  bother  about  me.  How  have  you  been?" 
And  she  looked  critically  at  her  sister:  "You  look  more 
Botticellian  than  ever." 


6  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"I've  become  an  adept  at  skimping.  Also,  I've  gone  in 
for  bees." 

"Do  they  pay?" 

"Not  at  present.  But  on  a  ton  of  honey  we  could  make 
about  seventy  pounds." 

"How  much  honey  did  you  have  this  year?" 

"About  two  hundredweight." 

"Are  there  any  horses  still?" 

"Yes,  we've  saved  the  horses,  so  far.  I've  got  a  scheme 
for  a  Condaford  Grange  bakery.  The  home  farm  is  grow- 
ing wheat  at  double  what  we  sell  it  at.  I  want  to  mill  and 
,  bake  our  own  and  supply  the  neighbourhood.  The  old 
mill  could  be  set  going  for  a  few  pounds,  and  there's  a 
building  for  the  bakery.  It  wants  about  three  hundred  to 
start  it.  We've  nearly  decided  to  cut  enough  timber." 

"The  local  traders  will  rage  furiously." 

"They  will." 

"Can  it  really  pay?" 

"At  a  ton  of  wheat  to  the  acre — vide  W hi  taker — we 
reckon  thirty  acres  of  our  wheat,  plus  as  much  Canadian  to 
make  good  light  bread,  would  bring  us  in  more  than  eight 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  less,  say,  five  hundred,  cost  of 
milling  and  baking.  It  would  mean  baking  one  hundred 
and  sixty  two-pound  loaves  a  day  and  selling  about 
56,000  loaves  a  year.  We  should  need  to  supply  eighty 
households,  but  that's  only  the  village,  more  or  less.  And 
we'd  make  the  best  and  brightest  bread." 

"Three  hundred  and  fifty  a  year  profit,"  said  Clare.  "I 
wonder." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Dinny.  "Experience  doesn't  tell  me  that 
every  estimate  of  profit  should  be  halved,  because  I  haven't 
had  any,  but  I  suspect  it.  But  even  half  would  just  tip  the 
beam  the  right  way  for  us,  and  we  could  extend  operations 
gradually.  We  could  plough  a  lot  of  grass  in  time." 

"It's  a  scheme,"  said  Clare,  "but  would  the  village  back 
you?" 


OVERTHERIVER  7 

"So  far  as  I've  sounded  them — yes." 

"You'd  want  somebody  to  run  it." 

"M'yes.  It  would  have  to  be  someone  who  didn't  mind 
what  he  did.  Of  course  he'd  have  the  future,  if  it  went." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Clare,  again,  and  wrinkled  her  brows. 

"Who,"  asked  Dinny  suddenly,  "was  that  young  man?" 

"Tony  Groom?  Oh!  He  was  on  a  tea  plantation,  but 
they  closed  down."  And  she  looked  her  sister  full  in  the 
face. 

"Pleasant?" 

"Yes,  rather  a  dear.  He  wants  a  job,  by  the  way." 

"So  do  about  three  million  others."  . 

"Including  me." 

"You  haven't  come  back  to  a  very  cheery  England, 
darling." 

"I  gather  we  fell  off  the  gold  standard  or  something 
while  I  was  in  the  Red  Sea.  What  is  the  gold  standard?" 

"It's  what  you  want  to  be  on  when  you're  off,  and  to  be 
off  when  you're  on." 

"I  see." 

"The  trouble,  apparently,  is  that  our  exports  and  carry- 
ing-trade profits  and  interests  from  investments  abroad 
don't  any  longer  pay  for  our  imports;  so  we're  living 
beyond  our  income.  Michael  says  anybody  could  have 
seen  that  coming;  but  we  thought  'it  would  be  all  right  on 
the  night.'  And  it  isn't.  Hence  the  National  Government 
and  the  election." 

"Can  they  do  anything  if  they  remain  in?" 

"Michael  says  'yes';  but  he's  notably  hopeful.  Uncle 
Lawrence  says  they  can  put  a  drag  on  panic,  prevent  money 
going  out  of  the  country,  keep  the  pound  fairly  steady,  and 
stop  profiteering;  but  that  nothing  under  a  wide  and 
definite  reconstruction  that  will  take  twenty  years  will  do 
the  trick;  and  during  that  time  we  shall  all  be  poorer. 
Unfortunately  no  Government,  he  says,  can  prevent  us 
liking  play  better  than  work,  hoarding  to  pay  these  awful 


8  OVER     THE     RIVER 

taxes,  or  preferring  the  present  to  the  future.  He  also  says 
that  if  we  think  people  will  work  as  they  did  in  the  war  to 
save  the  country,  we're  wrong;  because,  instead  of  being 
one  people  against  an  outside  enemy,  we're  two  peoples 
against  the  inside  enemy  of  ourselves,  with  quite  opposite 
views  as  to  how  our  salvation  is  to  come." 

"Does  he  think  the  socialists  have  a  cure?" 

"No;  he  says  they've  forgotten  that  no  one  will  give  them 
food  if  they  can  neither  produce  it  nor  pay  for  it.  He  says 
that  communism  or  free  trade  socialism  only  has  a  chance 
in  a  country  which  feeds  itself.  You  see,  I've  been  learning 
it  up.  They  all  use  the  word  Nemesis  a  good  deal." 

"Phewl  Where  are  we  going  now,  Dinny?" 

"I  thought  you'd  like  lunch  at  Fleur's;  afterwards  we  can 
take  the  three-fifty  to  Condaford." 

Then  there  was  silence,  during  which  each  thought 
seriously  about  the  other,  and  neither  was  happy.  For  Clare 
was  feeling  in  her  elder  sister  the  subtle  change  which 
follows  in  one  whose  springs  have  been  broken  and 
mended  to  go  on  with.  And  Dinny  was  thinking:  Toor 
childl  Now  we've  both  been  in  the  wars.  What  will  she 
do?  And  how  can  I  help  her?' 


CHAPTER  II 

"WHAT  a  nice  lunch!"  said  Clare,  eating  the  sugar  at  the 
bottom  of  her  coffee  cup:  "The  first  meal  on  shore  is 
lovely!  When  you  get  on  board  a  ship  and  read  the  first 
menu,  you  think:  'My  goodness!  What  an  enchanting  lot 
of  things! '  and  then  you  come  down  to  cold  ham  at  nearly 
every  meal.  Do  you  know  that  stealing  disappoint- 
ment?" 

"Don't  I?"  said  Fleur.    "The  curries  used  to  be  good, 
though." 

"Not  on  the  return  voyage.  I  never  want  to  see  a  curry 
again.  How's  the  Round  Table  Conference  going?" 

"Plodding  on.  Is  Ceylon  interested  in  India?" 

"Not  very.  Is  Michael?" 

"We  both  are." 

Clare's  brows  went  up  with  delightful  suddenness. 

"But  you  can't  know  anything  about  it." 

"I  was  in  India,  you  know,  and  at  one  time  I  saw  a  lot  of 
Indian  students." 

"Oh!   yes,  students.    That's  the  trouble.    They're  so 
advanced  and  the  people  are  so  backward." 

"If  Clare's  to  see  Kit  and  Kat  before  we  start,"  said 
Dinny,  "we  ought  to  go  up,  Fleur." 

The  visit  to  the  nurseries  over,  the  sisters  resumed  their 
seats  in  the  car. 

"Fleur  always  strikes  me,"  said  Clare,  "as  knowing  so 
exactly  what  she  wants." 

"She  gets  it,  as  a  rule;  but  there' ve  been  exceptions.  I've 
always  doubted  whether  she  really  wanted  Michael." 

"D'you  mean  a  love  affair  went  wrong?" 

Dinny  nodded.  Clare  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"Well,  she's  not  remarkable  in  that." 
9 


10  OVER     THE     RIVER 

Her  sister  did  not  answer. 

"Trains,"  Dinny  said,  in  their  empty  third-class  com- 
partment, "always  have  great  open  spaces  now." 

"I  rather  dread  seeing  Mother  and  Dad,  Dinny,  having 
made  such  an  almighty  bloomer.  I  really  must  get  some- 
thing to  do." 

"Yes,  you  won't  be  happy  at  Condaford  for  long." 

"It  isn't  that.  I  want  to  prove  that  I'm  not  the  complete 
idiot.  I  wonder  if  I  could  run  an  hotel.  English  hotels  are 
still  pretty  backward." 

"Good  idea.  It's  strenuous,  and  you'd  see  lots  of 
people." 

"Is  that  caustic?" 

"No,  darling,  just  common  sense;  you  never  liked  being 
buried." 

"How  does  one  go  to  work  to  get  such  a  thing?" 

"You  have  me  there.  But  now's  the  time  if  ever, 
nobody's  going  to  be  able  to  travel.  But  I'm  afraid  there's  a 
technical  side  to  managing  hotels  that  has  to  be  learned. 
Your  title  might  help." 

"I  shouldn't  use  his  name.  I  should  call  myself  Mrs. 
Clare." 

"I  see.  Are  you  sure  it  wouldn't  be  wise  to  tell  me  more 
about  things?" 

Clare  sat  silent  for  a  little,  then  said  suddenly:  "He's  a 
sadist." 

Looking  at  her  flushed  face,  Dinny  said:  "I've  never 
understood  exactly  what  that  means." 

"Seeking  sensation,  and  getting  more  sensation  when  you 
hurt  the  person  you  get  it  from.  A  wife  is  most  con- 
venient." 

"Oh!  darlingl" 

"There  was  a  lot  first,  my  riding  whip  was  only  the  last 
straw."  jp 

"You  don't  mean 1"  cried  Dinny,  horrified. 

"Oh!  yes." 


OVERTHERIVER  II 

Dinny  came  over  to  her  side  and  put  her  arms  round  her. 

"But,  Clare,  you  must  get  free!" 

"And  how?  My  word  against  his.  Besides,  who  would 
make  a  show  of  beastliness?  You're  the  only  person  I  could 
ever  even  speak  to  of  it." 

Dinny  got  up  and  let  down  the  window.  Her  face  was  as 
flushed  as  her  sister's.  She  heard  Clare  say  dully: 

"I  came  away  the  first  moment  I  could.  It's  none  of  it  fit 
for  publication.  You  see,  ordinary  passion  palls  after  a  bit, 
and  it's  a  hot  climate." 

"Oh!  heaven!"  said  Dinny,  and  sat  down  again  opposite. 

"My  own  fault.  I  always  knew  it  was  thin  ice,  and  I've 
popped  through,  that's  all." 

"But,  darling,  at  twenty-four  you  simply  can't  stay 
married  and  not  married." 

"I  don't  see  why  not;  manage  manque  is  very  steadying 
to  the  blood.  All  I'm  worrying  about  is  getting  a  job.  I'm 
not  going  to  be  a  drag  on  Dad.  Is  his  head  above  water, 
Dinny?" 

"Not  quite.  We  were  breaking  even,  but  this  last 
taxation  will  just  duck  us.  The  trouble  is  how  to  get  on 
without  reducing  staff.  Everyone's  in  the  same  boat.  I 
always  feel  that  we  and  the  village  are  one.  We've  got  to 
sink  or  swim  together,  and  somehow  or  other  we're  going 
to  swim.  Hence  my  bakery  scheme." 

"If  I  haven't  got  another  job,  could  I  do  the  delivering? 
I  suppose  we've  still  got  the  old  car." 

"Darling,  you  can  help  any  way  you  like.  But  it  all  has 
to  be  started.  That'll  take  till  after  Christmas.  In  the 
meantime  there's  the  election." 

"Who  is  our  candidate?" 

"His  name  is  Dornford — a  new  man,  quite  decent." 

"Will  he  want  canvassers?" 

"Rather!" 

"All  right.  That'll  be  something  to  do  for  a  start.  Is  this 
National  Government  any  use?" 


12  OVER     THE      RIVER 

"They  talk  of  'completing  their  work';  but  at  present 
they  don't  tell  us  how." 

"I  suppose  they'll  quarrel  among  themselves  the 
moment  a  constructive  scheme  is  put  up  to  them.  It's  all 
beyond  me.  But  I  can  go  round  saying  'Vote  for  Dorn- 
ford.'  How's  Aunt  Em?" 

"She's  coming  to  stay  to-morrow.  She  suddenly  wrote 
that  she  hadn't  seen  the  baby;  says  she's  feeling  romantic — 
wants  to  have  the  priest's  room,  and  will  I  see  that  'no  one 
bothers  to  do  her  up  behind,  and  that.'  She's  exactly  the 
same." 

"I  often  thought  about  her,"  said  Clare.  "Extra- 
ordinarily restful." 

After  that  there  was  a  long  silence,  Dinny  thinking  about 
Clare  and  Clare  thinking  about  herself.  Presently,  she  grew 
tired  of  that  and  looked  across  at  her  sister.  Had  Dinny 
really  got  over  that  affair  of  hers  with  Wilfrid  Desert  of 
which  Hubert  had  written  with  such  concern  when  it  was 
on,  and  such  relief  when  it  was  off?  She  had  asked  that  her 
affair  should  never  be  spoken  of,  Hubert  had  said,  but  that 
was  over  a  year  ago.  Could  one  venture,  or  would  she  curl 
up  like  a  hedgehog?  'Poor  Dinny!'  she  thought:  'I'm 
twenty-four,  so  she's  twenty-seven!'  And  she  sat  very  still 
looking  at  her  sister's  profile.  It  was  charming,  the  more  so 
for  that  slight  tip-tilt  of  the  nose  which  gave  to  the  face  a 
touch  of  adventurousness.  Her  eyes  were  as  pretty  as  ever 
— that  cornflower  blue  wore  well;  and  their  fringing  was 
unexpectedly  dark  with  such  chestnut  hair.  Still,  the  face 
was  thinner,  and  had  lost  what  Uncle  Lawrence  used  to  call 
its  'bubble  and  squeak.'  'I  should  fall  in  love  with  her  if  I 
were  a  man/  thought  Clare,  'she's  good.  But  it's  rather  a 
sad  face,  now,  except  when  she's  talking.'  And  Clare 
drooped  her  lids,  spying  through  her  lashes:  No!  one  could 
not  ask!  The  face  she  spied  on  had  a  sort  of  hard- won 
privacy  that  it  would  be  unpardonable  to  disturb. 

"Darling,"    said   Dinny,   "would   you   like   your   old 


OVERTHERIVER  13 

room?  I'm  afraid  the  fantails  have  multiplied  exceedingly — 
they  coo  a  lot  just  under  it." 

"I  shan't  mind  that." 

"And  what  do  you  do  about  breakfast?  Will  you  have  it 
in  your  room?" 

"My  dear,  don't  bother  about  me  in  any  way.  If  anybody 
does,  I  shall  feel  dreadful.  England  again  on  a  day  like  this! 
Grass  is  really  lovely  stuff,  and  the  elm  trees,  and  that  blue 
lookl" 

"Just  one  thing,  Clare.  Would  you  like  me  to  tell  Dad 
and  Mother,  or  would  you  rather  I  said  nothing?" 

Clare's  lips  tightened. 

"I  suppose  they'll  have  to  know  that  I'm  not  going 
back." 

"Yes;  and  something  of  the  reason." 

"Just  general  impossibility,  then." 

Dinny  nodded.  "I  don't  want  them  to  think  you  in  the 
wrong.  We'll  let  other  people  think  that  you're  home  for 
your  health." 

"Aunt  Em?"  said  Clare. 

"I'll  see  to  her.  She'll  be  absorbed  in  the  baby,  anyway. 
Here  we  are,  very  nearly." 

Condaford  Church  came  into  view,  and  the  little  group 
of  houses,  mostly  thatched,  which  formed  the  nucleus  of  that 
scattered  parish.  The  home-farm  buildings  could  be  seen, 
but  not  the  Grange,  for,  situate  on  the  lowly  level  dear  to 
ancestors,  it  was  wrapped  from  the  sight  in  trees. 

Clare,  flattening  her  nose  against  the  window,  said: 

"It  gives  you  a  thrill.  Are  you  as  fond  of  home  as  ever, 
Dinny?" 

"Fonder." 

"It's  funny.  I  love  it,  but  I  can't  live  in  it." 

"Very  English — hence  America  and  the  Dominions. 
Take  your  dressing-case,  and  I'll  take  the  suitcase." 

The  drive  up  through  the  lanes,  where  the  elms  were 
flecked  by  little  golden  patches  of  turned  leaves,  was 


14  OVERTHERIVER 

short  and  sweet  in  the  lowered  sunlight,  and  ended 
with  the  usual  rush  of  dogs  from  the  dark  hall. 

"This  one's  new,"  said  Clare,  of  the  black  spaniel 
sniffing  at  her  stockings. 

"Yes,  Foch.  Scaramouch  and  he  have  signed  the 
Kellogg  Pact,  so  they  don't  observe  it.  I'm  a  sort  of 
Manchuria."  And  Dinny  threw  open  the  drawing-room 
door. 

"Here  she  is,  Mother." 

Advancing  towards  her  mother,  who  stood  smiling,  pale 
and  tremulous,  Clare  felt  choky  for  the  first  time.  To  have 
to  come  back  like  this  and  disturb  their  peace! 

"Well,  Mother  darling,"  she  said,  "here's  your  bad 
penny!  You  look  just  the  same,  bless  you!" 

Emerging  from  that  warm  embrace,  Lady  Charwell 
looked  at  her  daughter  shyly  and  said: 

"Dad's  in  his  study." 

"I'll  fetch  him,"  said  Dinny. 

In  that  barren  abode,  which  still  had  its  military  and 
austere  air,  the  General  was  fidgeting  with  a  gadget  he  had 
designed  to  save  time  in  the  putting  on  of  riding  boots  and 
breeches. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"She's  all  right,  dear,  but  it  is  a  split,  and  I'm  afraid 
complete." 

"That's  bad!"  said  the  General,  frowning. 

Dinny  took  his  lapels  in  her  hands. 

"It's  not  her  fault.  But  I  wouldn't  ask  her  any  questions, 
Dad.  Let's  take  it  that  she's  just  on  a  visit;  and  make  it  as 
nice  for  her  as  we  can." 

"What's  the  fellow  been  doing?" 

"Oh!  his  nature.  I  knew  there  was  a  streak  of  cruelty  in 
him." 

"How  d'you  mean — knew  it,  Dinny?" 

"The  way  he  smiled — his  lips." 

The  General  uttered  a  sound  of  intense  discomfort. 


OVERTHERIVER  IJ 

"Come  along!"  he  said:  "Tell  me  later." 

With  Clare  he  was  perhaps  rather  elaborately  genial  and 
open,  asking  no  questions  except  about  the  Red  Sea  and  the 
scenery  of  Ceylon,  his  knowledge  of  which  was  confined 
to  its  spicy  off-shore  scent  and  a  stroll  in  the  Cinnamon 
Gardens  at  Colombo.  Clare,  still  emotional  from  the 
meeting  with  her  mother,  was  grateful  for  his  reticence. 
She  escaped  rather  quickly  to  her  room,  where  her  bags  had 
already  been  unpacked. 

At  its  dormer  window  she  stood  listening  to  the  cooroo- 
ing  of  the  fantails  and  the  sudden  nutter  and  flip-flap  of 
their  wings  climbing  the  air  from  the  yew-hedged  garden. 
The  sun,  very  low,  was  still  shining  through  an  elm 
tree.  There  was  no  wind,  and  her  nerves  sucked  up 
repose  in  that  pigeon-haunted  stillness,  scented  so  differ- 
ently from  Ceylon.  Native  air,  deliciously  sane,  fresh 
and  homespun,  with  a  faint  tang  of  burning  leaves.  She 
could  see  the  threading  blue  smoke  from  where  the 
gardeners  had  lighted  a  small  bonfire  in  the  orchard. 
And  almost  at  once  she  lit  a  cigarette.  The  whole  of 
Ckre  was  in  that  simple  action.  She  could  never  quite 
rest  and  be  still,  must  always  move  on  to  that  fuller 
savouring  which  for  such  natures  ever  recedes.  A  fantail 
on  the  gutter  of  the  sloped  stone  roof  watched  her  with 
a  soft  dark  little  eye,  preening  itself  slightly.  Beautifully 
white  it  was,  and  had  a  pride  of  body;  so  too  had  that 
small  round  mulberry  tree  which  had  dropped  a  ring 
of  leaves,  with  their  unders  uppermost,  spangling  the 
grass.  The  last  of  the  sunlight  was  stirring  in  what 
yellowish-green  foliage  was  left,  so  that  the  tree  had  an 
enchanted  look.  Seventeen  months  since  she  had  stood 
at  this  window  and  looked  down  over  that  mulberry 
tree  at  the  fields  and  the  rising  coverts  I  Seventeen  months 
of  foreign  skies  and  trees,  foreign  scents  and  sounds 
and  waters.  All  new,  and  rather  exciting,  tantalising, 
unsatisfying.  No  restl  Certainly  none  in  the  white  house 


l6  OVERTHERIVER 

with  the  wide  verandah  she  had  occupied  at  Kandy. 
At  first  she  had  enjoyed,  then  she  had  wondered  if  she 
enjoyed,  then  she  had  known  she  was  not  enjoying, 
lastly  she  had  hated  it.  And  now  it  was  all  over  and 
she  was  back!  She  flipped  the  ash  off  her  cigarette  and 
stretched  herself,  and  the  fantail  rose  with  a  fluster. 


CHAPTER  HI 

DINNY  was  'seeing  to'  Aunt  Em.  It  was  no  mean  process. 
With  ordinary  people  one  had  question  and  answer  and  the 
thing  was  over.  But  with  Lady  Mont  words  were  not 
consecutive  like  that.  She  stood  with  a  verbena  sachet  in 
her  hand,  sniffing,  while  Dinny  unpacked  for  her. 

"This  is  delicious,  Dinny.  Clare  looks  rather  yellow.  It 
isn't  a  baby,  is  it?" 

"No,  dear." 

"Pity!  When  we  were  in  Ceylon  everyone  was  havin' 
babies.  The  baby  elephants — so  enticin'l  In  this  room — 
we  always  played  a  game  of  feedin'  the  Catholic  priest  with 
a  basket  from  the  roof.  Your  father  used  to  be  on  the  roof, 
and  I  was  the  priest.  There  was  never  anythin'  worth  eatin' 
in  the  basket.  Your  Aunt  Wilmet  was  stationed  in  a  tree  to 
call  'Cooee'  in  case  of  Protestants." 

"  'Cooee'  was  a  bit  premature,  Aunt  Em.  Australia 
wasn't  discovered  under  Elizabeth." 

"No.  Lawrence  says  the  Protestants  at  that  time  were 
devils.  So  were  the  Catholics.  So  were  the  Moham- 
medans." 

Dinny  winced  and  veiled  her  face  with  a  corset  belt. 

"Where  shall  I  put  these  undies?" 

"So  long  as  I  see  where.  Don't  stoop  too  muchl  They 
were  all  devils  then.  Animals  were  treated  terribly.  Did 
Clare  enjoy  Ceylon?" 

Dinny  stood  up  with  an  armful  of  underthings. 

"Not  much." 

"Why  not?  Liver?" 

"Auntie,  you  won't  say  anything,  except  to  Uncle 
Lawrence  and  Michael,  if  I  tell  you?  There's  been  a 
split." 


18  OVERTHERIVER 

Lady  Mont  buried  her  nose  in  the  verbena  bag. 

"Oh!"  she  said:  "His  mother  looked  it.  D'you  believe 
in  'like  mother  like  son?" 

"Not  too  much." 

"I  always  thought  seventeen  years'  difference  too  much, 
Dinny.  Lawrence  says  people  say:  'Oh!  Jerry  CorvenP  and 
then  don't  say.  So,  what  was  it?" 

Dinny  bent  over  a  drawer  and  arranged  the  things. 

"I  can't  go  into  it,  but  he  seems  to  be  quite  a  beast." 

Lady  Mont  tipped  the  bag  into  the  drawer,  murmuring: 
"Poor  dear  Clare!" 

"So,  Auntie,  she's  just  to  be  home  for  her  health." 

Lady  Mont  put  her  nose  into  a  bowl  of  flowers.  "Bos- 
well  and  Johnson  call  them  'God-eat-yers.'  They  don't 
smell.  What  disease  could  Clare  have — nerves?" 

"Climate,  Auntie." 

"So  many  Anglo-Indians  go  back  and  back,  Dinny." 

"I  know,  but  for  the  present.  Something's  bound  to 
happen.  So  not  even  to  Fleur,  please." 

"Fleur  will  know  whether  I  tell  her  or  not.  She's  like 
that.  Has  Clare  a  young  man?" 

"Oh!  no!"  And  Dinny  lifted  a  puce-coloured  wrapper, 
recalling  the  expression  of  the  young  man  when  he  was 
saying  good-bye. 

"On  board  ship,"  murmured  her  Aunt  dubiously. 

Dinny  changed  the  subject. 

"Is  Uncle  Lawrence  very  political  just  now?" 

"Yes,  so  borin'.  Things  always  sound  so  when  you  talk 
about  them.  Is  your  candidate  here  safe,  like  Michael?" 

"He's  new,  but  he'll  get  in." 

"Married?" 

"No." 

Lady  Mont  inclined  her  head  slightly  to  one  side  and 
scrutinised  her  niece  from  under  half-drooped  lids. 

Dinny  took  the  last  thing  out  of  the  trunk.  It  was  a  pot 
of  antiphlogistine. 


OVERTHERIVER  19 

"That's  not  British,  Auntie." 

"For  the  chest.  Delia  puts  it  in.  I've  had  it,  years.  Have 
you  talked  to  your  candidate  in  private?" 

"I  have." 

"How  old  is  he?" 

"Rather  under  forty,  I  should  say." 

"Does  he  do  anything  besides?" 

"He'saK.C." 

"What's  his  name?" 

"Domfbrd." 

"There  were  Dornfbrds  when  I  was  a  girl.  Where  was 
that?  Ah!  Algeciras!  He  was  a  Colonel  at  Gibraltar." 

"That  would  be  his  father,  I  expect." 

"Then  he  hasn't  any  money." 

"Only  what  he  makes  at  the  Bar." 

"But  they  don't — under  forty." 

"He  does,  I  think." 

"Energetic?" 

"Very." 

"Fair?" 

"No,  darkish.  He  won  the  Bar  point-to-point  this  year. 
Now,  darling,  will  you  have  a  fire  at  once,  or  kst  till 
dressing  time?" 

"Last.  I  want  to  see  the  baby." 

"All  right,  he  ought  to  be  just  in  from  his  pram.  Your 
bathroom's  at  the  foot  of  these  stairs,  and  I'll  wait  for  you 
in  the  nursery." 

The  nursery  was  the  same  mullion-windowed,  low- 
pitched  room  as  that  wherein  Dinny  and  Aunt  Em  her- 
self had  received  their  first  impressions  of  that  jigsaw 
puzzle  called  life;  and  in  it  the  baby  was  practising 
his  totter.  Whether  he  would  be  a  Charwell  or  a  Tas- 
burgh  when  he  grew  up  seemed  as  yet  uncertain.  His 
nurse,  his  aunt  and  his  great-aunt  stood,  in  triangular 
admiration,  for  him  to  fall  alternatively  into  their  out- 
stretched hands. 


20  OVERTHERIVER 

"He  doesn't  crow,"  said  Dinny. 

"He  does  in  the  morning,  Miss." 

"Down  he  goes!"  said  Lady  Mont. 

"Don't  cry,  darling!" 

"He  never  cries,  Miss." 

"That's  Jean.  Clare  and  I  cried  a  lot  till  we  were  about 
seven." 

"I  cried  till  I  was  fifteen,"  said  Lady  Mont,  "and  I  began 
again  when  I  was  forty-five.  Did  you  cry,  Nurse?" 

"We  were  too  large  a  family,  my  lady.  There  wasn't 
room  like." 

"Nanny  had  a  lovely  mother — five  sisters  as  good  as 
gold." 

The  nurse's  fresh  cheeks  grew  fresher;  she  drooped  her 
chin,  smiling,  shy  as  a  little  girl. 

"Take  care  of  bow  legs!"  said  Lady  Mont:  "That's 
enough  totterin'." 

The  nurse,  retrieving  the  still  persistent  baby,  placed  him 
in  his  cot,  whence  he  frowned  solemnly  at  Dinny,  who  said: 

"Mother's  devoted  to  him.  She  thinks  he'll  be  like 
Hubert." 

Lady  Mont  made  the  sound  supposed  to  attract  babies. 

"When  does  Jean  come  home  again?" 

"Not  till  Hubert's  next  long  leave." 

Lady  Mont's  gaze  rested  on  her  niece. 

"The  rector  says  Alan  has  another  year  on  the  China 
station." 

Dinny,  dangling  a  bead  chain  over  the  baby,  paid  no 
attention.  Never  since  the  summer  evening  last  year,  when 
she  came  back  home  after  Wilfrid's  flight,  had  she  made  or 
suffered  any  allusion  to  her  feelings.  No  one,  perhaps  not 
even  she  herself,  knew  whether  she  was  heart-whole  once 
more.  It  was,  indeed,  as  if  she  had  no  heart.  So  long,  so 
earnestly  had  she  resisted  its  aching,  that  it  had  slunk  away 
into  the  shadows  of  her  inmost  being,  where  even  she  could 
hardly  feel  it  beating. 


OVERTHERIVER  21 

"What  would  you  like  to  do  now,  Auntie?  He  has  to  go 
to  sleep." 

"Take  me  round  the  garden." 

They  went  down  and  out  on  to  the  terrace. 

"Oh!"  said  Dinny,  with  dismay,  "Glover  has  gone  and 
beaten  the  leaves  off  the  little  mulberry.  They  were  so 
lovely,  shivering  on  the  tree  and  coming  off  in  a  ring  on  the 
grass.  Really  gardeners  have  no  sense  of  beauty." 

"They  don't  like  sweepin'.  Where's  the  cedar  I  planted 
when  I  was  five?" 

They  came  on  it  round  the  corner  of  an  old  wall,  a 
spreading  youngster  of  nearly  sixty,  with  flattening  boughs 
gilded  by  the  level  sunlight. 

"I  should  like  to  be  buried  under  it,  Dinny.  Only  I 
suppose  they  won't.  There'll  be  something  stuffy." 

"I  mean  to  be  burnt  and  scattered.  Look  at  them 
ploughing  in  that  field.  I  do  love  horses  moving  slowly 
against  a  skyline  of  trees." 

"  'The  lowin*  kine,'  "  said  Lady  Mont  irrelevantly. 

A  faint  clink  came  from  a  sheepfold  to  the  East. 

"Listen,  Auntiel" 

Lady  Mont  thrust  her  arm  within  her  niece's. 

"I've  often  thought,"  she  said,  "that  1  should  like  to  be  a 
goat." 

"Not  in  England,  tied  to  a  stake  and  grazing  in  a 
mangy  little  circle." 

"No,  with  a  bell  on  a  mountain.  A  he-goat,  I  think,  so  as 
not  to  be  milked." 

"Come  and  see  our  new  cutting  bed,  Auntie.  There's 
nothing  now,  of  course,  but  dahlias,  godetks,  chry- 
santhemums, Michaelmas  daisies,  and  a  few  pentstemons 
and  cosmias." 

"Dinny,"  said  Lady  Mont,  from  among  the  dahlias, 
"about  Clare?  They  say  divorce  is  very  easy  now." 

"Until  you  try  for  it,  I  expect." 

"There's  desertion  and  that." 


22  OVERTHERIVER 

"But  you  have  to  be  deserted." 

"Well,  you  said  he  made  her." 

"It's  not  the  same  thing,  dear." 

"Lawyers  are  so  fussy  about  the  law.  There  was  that 
magistrate  with  the  long  nose  in  Hubert's  extradition." 

"Oh!  but  he  turned  out  quite  human." 

"How  was  that?" 

"Telling  the  Home  Secretary  that  Hubert  was  speaking 
the  truth." 

"A  dreadful  business,"  murmured  Lady  Mont,  "but  nice 
to  remember." 

"It  had  a  happy  ending,"  said  Dinny  quickly. 

Lady  Mont  stood,  ruefully  regarding  her. 

And  Dinny,  staring  at  the  flowers,  said  suddenly:  "Aunt 
Em,  somehow  there  must  be  a  happy  ending  for  Clare." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  custom  known  as  canvassing,  more  peculiar  even  than 
its  name,  was  in  full  blast  round  Condaford.  Every 
villager  had  been  invited  to  observe  how  appropriate  it 
would  be  if  they  voted  for  Dornford,  and  how  equally 
appropriate  it  would  be  if  they  voted  for  Stringer.  They 
had  been  exhorted  publicly  and  vociferously,  by  ladies  in 
cars,  by  ladies  out  of  cars,  and  in  the  privacy  of  their 
homes  by  voices  speaking  out  of  trumpets.  By  newspaper 
and  by  leaflet  they  had  been  urged  to  perceive  that  they 
alone  could  save  the  country.  They  had  been  asked  to  vote 
early,  and  only  just  not  asked  to  vote  often.  To  their 
attention  had  been  brought  the  startling  dilemma  that 
whichever  way  they  voted  the  country  would  be  saved. 
They  had  been  exhorted  by  people  who  knew  everything, 
it  seemed,  except  how  it  would  be  saved.  Neither  the 
candidates  nor  their  ladies,  neither  the  mysterious  dis- 
embodied voices,  nor  the  still  more  incorporeal  print,  had 
made  the  faintest  attempt  to  tell  them  that.  It  was  better 
not;  for,  in  the  first  place,  no  one  knew.  And,  in  the 
second  place,  why  mention  the  particular  when  the  general 
would  serve?  Why  draw  attention,  even,  to  the  fact  that 
the  general  is  made  up  of  the  particular;  or  to  the  political 
certainty  that  promise  is  never  performance?  Better,  far 
better,  to  make  large  loose  assertion,  abuse  the  other  side, 
and  call  the  electors  the  sanest  and  soundest  body  of  people 
in  the  world. 

Dinny  was  not  canvassing.  She  was  'no  good  at  it,'  she 
said;  and,  perhaps,  secretly  she  perceived  the  peculiarity  of 
the  custom.  Clare,  if  she  noticed  any  irony  about  the 
business,  was  too  anxious  to  be  doing  something  to 
abstain.  She  was  greatly  helped  by  the  way  everybody  took 

23 


24  OVERTHERIVER 

it.  They  had  always  been  'canvassed/  and  they  always 
would  be.  It  was  a  harmless  enough  diversion  to  their 
ears,  rather  like  the  buzzing  of  gnats  that  did  not  bite.  As 
to  their  votes,  they  would  record  them  for  quite  other 
reasons — because  their  fathers  had  voted  this  or  that  before 
them,  because  of  something  connected  with  their  oc- 
cupation, because  of  their  landlords,  their  churches,  or 
their  trades  unions;  because  they  wanted  a  change,  while 
not  expecting  anything  much  from  it;  and  not  a  few 
because  of  their  common  sense. 

Clare,  dreading  questions,  pattered  as  little  as  possible 
and  came  quickly  to  their  babies  or  their  health.  She 
generally  ended  by  asking  what  time  they  would  like  to  be 
fetched.  Noting  the  hour  in  a  little  book,  she  would  come 
out  not  much  the  wiser.  Being  a  Charwell — that  is  to  say, 
no  'foreigner' — she  was  taken  as  a  matter  of  course;  and 
though  not,  like  Dinny,  personally  known  to  them  all,  she 
was  part  of  an  institution,  Condaford  without  Charwells 
being  still  almost  inconceivable. 

She  was  driving  back  from  this  dutiful  pastime  towards 
the  Grange  about  four  o'clock  on  the  Saturday  before  the 
election,  when  a  voice  from  an  overtaking  two-seater  called 
her  name,  and  she  saw  young  Tony  Groom. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  doing  here,  Tony?" 

"I  couldn't  go  any  longer  without  a  glimpse  of  you." 

"But,  my  dear  boy,  to  come  down  here  is  too  terribly 
pointed." 

"I  know,  but  I've  seen  you." 

"You  weren't  going  to  call,  were  you?" 

"If  I  didn't  see  you  otherwise.  Clare,  you  look  so 
lovely!" 

"That,  if  true,  is  not  a  reason  for  queering  my  pitch  at 
home." 

"The  last  thing  I  want  to  do;  but  I've  got  to  see  you  now 
and  then,  otherwise  I  shall  go  batty." 

His  face  was  so  earnest  and  his  voice  so  moved,  that 


OVER     THE     RIVER  25 

Clare  felt  for  the  first  time  stirred  in  that  hackneyed 
region,  the  heart. 

"That's  bad,"  she  said;  "because  I've  got  to  find  my 
feet,  and  I  can't  have  complications." 

"Let  me  kiss  you  just  once.  Then  I  should  go  back 
happy." 

Still  more  stirred,  Clare  thrust  forward  her  cheek. 

"Well,  quick!"  she  said. 

He  glued  his  lips  to  her  cheek,  but  when  he  tried  to 
reach  her  lips  she  drew  back. 

"No.  Now  Tony,  you  must  go.  If  you're  to  see  me,  it 
must  be  in  Town.  But  what  is  the  good  of  seeing  me?  It'll 
only  make  us  unhappy." 

"Bless  you  for  that  'us.'  " 

Clare's  brown  eyes  smiled;  their  colour  was  like  that  of  a 
glass  of  Malaga  wine  held  up  to  the  light. 

"Have  you  found  a  job?" 

"There  are  none." 

"It'll  be  better  when  the  election's  over.  Tm  thinking  of 
trying  to  get  with  a  milliner." 

"You!" 

"I  must  do  something.  My  people  here  are  as  hard 
pressed  as  everybody  else.  Now,  Tony,  you  said  you'd  go." 

"Promise  to  let  me  know  the  first  day  you  come  up." 

Clare  nodded,  and  re-started  her  engine.  As  the  car  slid 
forward  gently,  she  turned  her  face  and  gave  him  another 
smile. 

He  continued  to  stand  with  his  hands  to  his  head  till  the 
car  rounded  a  bend  and  she  was  gone. 

Turning  the  car  into  the  stable  yard,  she  was  thinking 
'Poor  boy!'  and  feeling  the  better  for  it.  Whatever  her 
position  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  or  according  to  morality,  a 
young  and  pretty  woman  breathes  more  easily  when 
inhaling  the  incense  of  devotion.  She  may  have  strict 
intentions,  but  she  has  also  a  sense  of  what  is  due  to  her, 
and  a  dislike  of  waste.  Clare  looked  the  prettier  and  felt  the 


Z6  OVERTHERIVER 

happier  all  that  evening.  But  the  night  was  ridden  by  the 
moon;  nearly  full,  it  soared  up  in  front  of  her  window, 
discouraging  sleep.  She  got  up  and  parted  the  curtains. 
Huddling  into  her  fur  coat,  she  stood  at  the  window. 
There  was  evidently  a  frost,  and  a  ground  mist  stretched 
like  fleece  over  the  fields.  The  tall  elms,  ragged-edged, 
seemed  to  be  sailing  slowly  along  over  the  white  vapour. 
The  earth  out  there  was  unknown  by  her,  as  if  it  had 
dropped  from  that  moon.  She  shivered.  It  might  be 
beautiful,  but  it  was  cold,  uncanny;  a  frozen  glamour.  She 
thought  of  the  nights  in  the  Red  Sea,  when  she  lay  with  bed- 
clothes thrown  off,  and  the  very  moon  seemed  hot.  On 
board  that  ship  people  had  'talked'  about  her  and  Tony — 
she  had  seen  many  signs  of  it,  and  hadn't  cared.  Why 
should  she?  He  had  not  even  kissed  her  all  those  days. 
Not  even  the  evening  he  came  to  her  stateroom  and  she  had 
shown  him  photographs,  and  they  had  talked.  A  nice  boy, 
modest  and  a  gentlemanl  And  if  he  was  in  love,  now,  she 
couldn't  help  it — she  hadn't  tried  to  Vamp'  him.  As  to 
what  would  happen,  life  always  tripped  one  up,  it  seemed, 
whatever  one  did!  Things  must  take  care  of  themselves. 
To  make  resolutions,  plans,  lay  down  what  was  called  *a 
line  of  conduct,'  was  not  the  slightest  usel  She  had  tried 
that  with  Jerry.  She  shivered,  then  laughed,  then  went 
rigid  with  a  sort  of  fury.  No!  If  Tony  expected  her  to  rush 
into  his  arms  he  was  very  much  mistaken.  Sensual  love! 
She  knew  it  inside  out.  No,  thank  you!  As  that  moonlight, 
now,  she  was  cold!  Impossible  to  speak  of  it  even  to  her 
Mother,  whatever  she  and  Dad  might  be  thinking. 

Dinny  must  have  told  them  something,  for  they  had 
been  most  awfully  decent.  But  even  Dinny  didn't  know. 
Nobody  should  ever  know!  If  only  she  had  money  it 
wouldn't  matter.  'Ruined  life,'  of  course,  and  all  that,  was 
just  old-fashioned  tosh.  Life  could  always  be  amusing  if 
one  made  it  so.  She  was  not  going  to  skulk  and  mope. 
Far  from  that!  But  money  she  must  somehow  make.  She 


OVERTHERIVER  2J 

shivered  even  in  her  fur  coat.  The  moonlight  seemed  to 
creep  into  one's  bones.  These  old  houses — no  central 
heating,  because  they  couldn't  afford  to  put  it  inl  The 
moment  the  election  was  over  she  would  go  up  to  London 
and  scout  round.  Fleur  might  know  of  something.  If 
there  was  no  future  in  hats,  one  might  get  a  political 
secretaryship.  She  could  type,  she  knew  French  well, 
people  could  read  her  handwriting.  She  could  drive  a  car 
with  anybody,  or  school  a  horse.  She  knew  all  about 
country  house  life,  manners,  and  precedence.  There  must 
be  lots  of  Members  who  wanted  somebody  like  her,  who 
could  tell  them  how  to  dress,  and  how  to  decline  this  and 
that  without  anybody  minding,  and  generally  do  their 
crossword  puzzles  for  them.  She'd  had  quite  a  lot  of 
experience  with  dogs,  and  some  with  flowers,  especially  the 
arrangement  of  them  in  bowls  and  vases.  And  if  it  were  a 
question  of  knowing  anything  about  politics,  she  could 
soon  mug  that  up.  So,  in  that  illusory  cold  moonshine, 
Clare  could  not  see  how  they  could  fail  to  need  her.  With  a 
salary  and  her  own  two  hundred  a  year  she  could  get  along 
quite  well!  The  moon,  behind  an  elm  tree  now,  no  longer 
had  its  devastating  impersonality,  but  rather  an  air  of 
bright  intrigue,  peeping  through  those  still  thick  boughs 
with  a  conspiring  eye.  She  hugged  herself,  danced  a  few 
steps  to  warm  her  feet,  and  slipped  back  into  her  bed.  .  .  . 
Young  Groom,  in  his  borrowed  two-seater,  had  returned 
to  Town  at  an  unobtrusive  sixty  miles  an  hour.  His  first 
kiss  on  Clare's  cold  but  glowing  cheek  had  given  him 
slight  delirium.  It  was  an  immense  step  forward.  He  was 
not  a  vicious  young  man.  That  Clare  was  married  was  to 
him  no  advantage.  But  whether,  if  she  had  not  been 
married,  his  feelings  towards  her  would  have  been  of  quite 
the  same  brand,  was  a  question  he  left  unexamined.  The 
subtle  difference  which  creeps  into  the  charm  of  a  woman 
who  has  known  physical  love,  and  the  sting  which  the 
knowledge  of  that  implants  in  a  man's  senses — such  is  food 


28  OVERTHERIVER 

for  a  psychologist  rather  than  for  a  straightforward  young 
man  really  in  love  for  the  first  time.  He  wanted  her,  as  his 
wife  if  possible;  if  that  were  not  possible,  in  any  other  way 
that  was.  He  had  been  in  Ceylon  three  years,  hard-worked, 
seeing  few  white  women,  and  none  that  he  had  cared  for. 
His  passion  had,  hitherto,  been  for  polo,  and  his  meeting 
with  Clare  had  come  just  as  he  had  lost  both  job  and  polo. 
Clare  filled  for  him  a  yawning  gap.  As  with  Clare,  so  with 
him  in  the  matter  of  money,  only  more  so. 

He  had  some  two  hundred  pounds  saved,  and  would  then 
be  "bang  up  against  it*  unless  he  got  a  job.  Having  returned 
the  two-seater  to  his  friend's  garage,  he  considered  where 
he  could  dine  most  cheaply,  and  decided  on  his  club.  He 
was  practically  living  there,  except  for  a  bedroom  in  Ryder 
Street,  where  he  slept  and  breakfasted  on  tea  and  boiled 
eggs.  A  simple  room  it  was,  on  the  ground  floor,  with  a  bed 
and  a  dress  cupboard,  looking  out  on  the  tall  back  of 
another  building,  the  sort  of  room  that  his  father,  coming 
on  the  Town  in  the  'nineties,  had  slept  and  breakfasted  in 
for  half  the  money. 

On  Saturday  nights  the  Coffee  House  was  deserted, 
save  for  a  certain  number  of  'old  buffers'  accustomed  to 
week-ending  in  St.  James's  Street.  Young  Croom  ordered 
the  three-course  dinner  and  ate  it  to  the  last  crumb.  He 
drank  Bass,  and  went  down  to  the  smoking-room  for  a  pipe. 
About  to  sink  into  an  armchair,  he  noticed  standing  before 
the  fire  a  tallish  thin  man  with  twisting  dark  eyebrows  and 
a  little  white  moustache,  who  was  examining  him  through  a 
tortoiseshell-rimmed  monocle.  Acting  on  the  impulse  of  a 
lover  craving  connection  with  his  lady,  he  said: 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  but  aren't  you  Sir  Lawrence  Mont?" 

"That  has  been  my  lifelong  conviction." 

Young  Croom  smiled. 

"Then,  sir,  I  met  your  niece,  Lady  Corven,  coming  home 
from  Ceylon.  She  said  you  were  a  member  here.  My 
name's  Croom." 


OVERTHERIVER  29 

"Ahl"  said  Sir  Lawrence,  dropping  his  eyeglass:  "I 
probably  knew  your  father — he  was  always  here,  before  the 
war." 

"Yes,  he  put  me  down  at  birth.  I  believe  I'm  about  the 
youngest  in  the  Club." 

Sir  Lawrence  nodded.  "So  you  met  Clare.  How  was 
she?" 

"All  right,  I  think,  sir." 

"Let's  sit  down  and  talk  about  Ceylon.  Cigar?" 

"Thank  you,  sir,  I  have  my  pipe." 

"Coffee,  anyway?  Waiter,  two  coffees.  My  wife  is  down 
at  Condaford  staying  with  Clare's  people.  An  attractive 
young  woman." 

Noting  those  dark  eyes,  rather  like  a  snipe's,  fixed  on 
him,  young  Croom  regretted  his  impulse.  He  had  gone 
red,  but  he  said  bravely: 

"Yes,  sir,  I  thought  her  delightful." 

"Do  you  know  Corven?" 

"No,"  said  young  Croom  shortly. 

"Clever  fellow.  Did  you  like  Ceylon?" 

"Oh!  yes.   But  it's  given  me  up." 

"Not  going  back?" 

"Afraid  not." 

"It's  a  long  time  since  I  was  there.  India  has  rather 
smothered  it.  Been  in  India?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Difficult  to  know  how  far  the  people  of  India  really 
want  to  cut  the  painter.  Seventy  per  cent  peasants! 
Peasants  want  stable  conditions  and  a  quiet  life.  I  re- 
member in  Egypt  before  the  war  there  was  a  strong 
nationalist  agitation,  but  the  fellaheen  were  all  for  Kitchener 
and  stable  British  rule.  We  took  Kitchener  away  and  gave 
them  unstable  conditions  in  the  war,  and  so  they  went  on 
the  other  tack.  What  were  you  doing  in  Ceylon?" 

"Running  a  tea  plantation.  But  they  took  up  economy, 
amalgamated  three  plantations,  and  I  wasn't  wanted  any 


30  OVERTHERIVER 

more.  Do  you  think  there's  going  to  be  a  recovery,  sir?  I 
can't  understand  economics." 

"Nobody  can.  There  are  dozens  of  causes  of  the  present 
state  of  things,  and  people  are  always  trying  to  tie  it  to  one. 
Take  England:  There's  the  knock-out  of  Russian  trade,  the 
comparative  independence  of  European  countries,  the 
great  shrinkage  of  Indian  and  Chinese  trade;  the  higher 
standard  of  British  living  since  the  war;  the  increase  of 
national  expenditure  from  two  hundred-odd  millions  to 
eight  hundred  millions,  which  means  nearly  six  hundred 
millions  a  year  less  to  employ  labour  with.  When  they  talk 
of  over-production  being  the  cause,  it  certainly  doesn't 
apply  to  us.  We  haven't  produced  so  little  for  a  long  time 
past.  Then  there's  dumping,  and  shocking  bad  organisa- 
tion, and  bad  marketing  of  what  little  food  we  produce. 
And  there's  our  habit  of  thinking  it'll  be  'all  right  on  the 
night,'  and  general  spoiled-child  attitude.  Well,  those  are 
all  special  English  causes,  except  that  the  too  high  standard 
of  living  and  the  spoiled-child  attitude  are  American  too." 

"And  the  other  American  causes,  sir?" 

"The  Americans  certainly  have  over-produced  and 
over-speculated.  And  they've  been  living  so  high  that 
they've  mortgaged  their  future — instalment  system  and  all 
that.  Then  they're  sitting  on  gold,  and  gold  doesn't  hatch 
out.  And,  more  than  all,  they  don't  realise  yet  that  the 
money  they  lent  to  Europe  during  the  war  was  practically 
money  they'd  made  out  of  the  war.  When  they  agree  to 
general  cancellation  of  debts  they'll  be  agreeing  to  general 
recovery,  including  their  own." 

"But  will  they  ever  agree?" 

"You  never  know  what  the  Americans  will  do,  they're 
looser- jointed  than  we  of  the  old  world.  They're  capable 
of  the  big  thing,  even  in  their  own  interests.  Are  you  out 
of  a  job?" 

"Very  much  so." 

"What's  your  record?" 


OVERTHERIVER  3! 

"I  was  at  Wellington  and  at  Cambridge  for  two  years. 
Then  this  tea  thing  came  along,  and  I  took  it  like  a  bird." 

"What  age  are  you?" 

"Twenty-six." 

"Any  notion  of  what  you  want  to  do?" 

Young  Groom  sat  forward. 

"Really,  sir,  I'd  have  a  shot  at  anything.  But  I'm  pretty 
good  with  horses.  I  thought  possibly  I  might  get  into  a 
training  stable;  or  with  a  breeder;  or  get  a  riding  master- 
ship." 

"Quite  an  idea.  It's  queer  about  the  horse — he's  coming 
in  as  he  goes  out.  I'll  talk  to  my  cousin  Jack  Muskham — 
he  breeds  bloodstock.  And  he's  got  a  bee  in  his  bonnet 
about  the  reintroduction  of  Arab  blood  into  the  English 
thoroughbred.  In  fact  he's  got  some  Arab  mares  coming 
over.  Just  possibly  he  might  want  someone." 

Young  Groom  flushed  and  smiled. 

"That  would  be  frightfully  kind  of  you,  sir.  It  sounds 
ideal.  I've  had  Arab  polo  ponies." 

"Well,"  murmured  Sir  Lawrence  thoughtfully,  "I  don't 
know  that  anything  excites  my  sympathy  more  than  a  man 
who  really  wants  a  job  and  can't  find  one.  We  must  get  this 
election  over  first,  though.  Unless  the  socialists  are  routed 
horse-breeders  will  have  to  turn  their  stock  into  potted 
meat.  Imagine  having  the  dam  of  a  Derby  winner  between 
brown  bread  and  butter  for  your  tea — real  'Gentleman's 
Relish!'" 

He  got  up. 

"I'll  say  good-night,  now.  My  cigar  will  just  last  me 
home." 

Young  Groom  rose  too,  and  remained  standing  till  that 
spare  and  active  figure  had  vanished. 

'Frightfully  nice  old  boyl'  he  thought,  and  in  the  depths 
of  his  armchair  he  resigned  himself  to  hope  and  to  Clare's 
face  wreathed  by  the  fumes  of  his  pipe. 


CHAPTER  V 

ON  that  cold  and  misty  evening,  which  all  the  newspapers 
had  agreed  was  to  'make  history/  the  Charwells  sat  in  the 
drawing-room  at  Condaford  round  the  portable  wireless,  a 
present  from  Fleur.  Would  the  voice  breathe  o'er  Eden,  or 
would  it  be  the  striking  of  Fate's  clock?  Not  one  of  those 
five  but  was  solemnly  convinced  that  the  future  of  Great 
Britain  hung  in  the  balance;  convinced,  too,  that  their 
conviction  was  detached  from  class  or  party.  Patriotism 
divorced  from  thought  of  vested  interest  governed,  as  they 
supposed,  their  mood.  And  if  they  made  a  mistake  in  so 
thinking,  quite  a  number  of  other  Britons  were  making  it 
too.  Across  Dinny's  mind,  indeed,  did  flit  the  thought: 
'Does  anyone  know  what  will  save  the  country  and  what 
won't?'  But,  even  by  her,  time  and  tide,  incalculably 
rolling,  swaying  and  moulding  the  lives  of  nations,  was  un- 
gauged.  Newspapers  and  politicians  had  done  their  work 
and  stamped  the  moment  for  her  as  a  turning  point.  In  a 
sea-green  dress,  she  sat,  close  to  the  'present  from  Fleur,' 
waiting  to  turn  it  on  at  ten  o'clock,  and  regulate  its 
stridency.  Aunt  Em  was  working  at  a  new  piece  of  French 
tapestry,  her  slight  aquilinity  emphasised  by  tortoise-shell 
spectacles.  The  General  nervously  turned  and  re-turned 
The  Times  and  kept  taking  out  his  watch.  Lady  Charwell  sat 
still  and  a  little  forward,  like  a  child  in  Sunday  School 
before  she  has  become  convinced  that  she  is  going  to  be 
bored.  And  Clare  lay  on  the  sofa,  with  the  dog  Foch  on  her 
feet. 

"Time,  Dinny,"  said  the  General;  "turn  the  thing  on." 
Dinny  fingered  a  screw,  and  'the  thing'  burst  into  music. 
"  'Rings  on  our  fingers  and  bells  on  our  toes/  "   she 
murmured,  "  'We  have  got  music  wherever  we  goes.' ' 

32 


OVERTHERIVER  33 

The  music  stopped,  and  the  voice  spoke: 

"This  is  the  first  election  result:  Hornsey  .  .  .  Con- 
servative, no  change." 

The  General  added:  "H'm!"  and  the  music  began  again. 

Aunt  Em,  looking  at  the  portable,  said:  "Coax  it, 
Dinny.  That  burrin'l" 

"It  always  has  that,  Auntie." 

"Blore  does  something  to  ours  with  a  penny.  Where  is 
Hornsey— Isle  of  Wight?" 

"Middlesex,  darling." 

"Ohl  yes!  I  was  thinkin'  of  Southsea.  There  he  goes 
again." 

"These  are  some  more  election  results.  .  .  .  Con- 
servative, gain  from  Labour.  .  .  .  Conservative,  no 
change.  .  .  .  Conservative,  gain  from  Labour." 

The  General  added:   "Hal"  and  the  music  began  again. 

"What  nice  large  majorities!"  said  Lady  Mont:  "Grati- 
fyin'I" 

Clare  got  off  the  sofa  and  squatted  on  a  footstool  against 
her  mother's  knees.  The  General  had  dropped  The  Times. 
The  Voice*  spoke  again: 

"...  Liberal  National,  gain  from  Labour.  .  .  . 
Conservative,  no  change.  .  .  .  Conservative,  gain  from 
Labour." 

Again  and  again  the  music  spurted  up  and  died  away; 
and  the  voice  spoke. 

Clare's  face  grew  more  and  more  vivid,  and  above  her 
Lady  Charwell's  pale  and  gentle  face  wore  one  long  smile. 
From  time  to  time  the  General  said:  "By  Georgel"  and 
"This  is  something  like!" 

And  Dinny  thought:  'Poor  Labour!' 

On  and  on  and  on  the  voice  breathed  o'er  Eden. 

"Crushin',"  said  Lady  Mont:   "I'm  gettin'  sleepy." 

"Go  to  bed,  Auntie.  I'll  put  a  slip  under  your  door  when 
I  come  up." 

Lady  Charwell,  too,  got  up.  When  they  were  gone,  Clare 


34  OVERTHERIVER 

went  back  to  the  sofa  and  seemed  to  fall  asleep.  The 
General  sat  on,  hypnotised  by  the  chant  of  victory.  Dinny, 
with  knees  crossed  and  eyes  closed,  was  thinking:  'Will  it 
really  make  a  difference;  and,  if  it  does,  shall  I  care?  Where 
is  he?  Listening  as  we  are?  Where?  Where?'  Not  so  often 
now,  but  quite  often  enough,  that  sense  of  groping  for 
Wilfrid  returned  to  her.  In  all  these  sixteen  months  since 
he  left  her  she  had  found  no  means  of  hearing  of  him.  For 
all  she  knew  he  might  be  dead.  Once — only  once — she  had 
broken  her  resolve  never  to  speak  of  her  disaster,  and  had 
asked  Michael.  Compson  Grice,  his  publisher,  had,  it  seemed 
received  a  letter  from  him  written  in  Bangkok,  which 
said  he  was  well  and  had  begun  to  write.  That  was  nine 
months  ago.  The  veil,  so  little  lifted,  had  dropped  again. 
Heartache — well,  she  was  used  to  it. 

"Dad,  it's  two  o'clock.  It'll  be  like  this  all  the  time  now. 
Clare's  asleep." 

"I'm  not,"  said  Clare. 

"You  ought  to  be.  I'll  let  Foch  out  for  his  run,  and 
we'll  all  go  up." 

The  General  rose. 

"Enough's  as  good  as  a  feast.  I  suppose  we'd  better." 

Dinny  opened  the  French  window  and  watched  the  dog 
Foch  trotting  out  in  semblance  of  enthusiasm.  It  was  cold, 
with  a  ground  mist,  and  she  shut  the  window.  If  she 
didn't  he  would  neglect  his  ritual  and  with  more  than  the 
semblance  of  enthusiasm  trot  in  again.  Having  kissed  her 
father  and  Clare,  she  turned  out  the  lights  and  waited  in  the 
hall.  The  wood  fire  had  almost  died.  She  stood  with  her 
foot  on  the  stone  hearth,  thinking.  Clare  had  spoken  of 
trying  to  get  a  secretaryship  to  some  new  Member  of 
Parliament.  Judging  by  the  returns  that  were  coming  in, 
there  would  be  plenty  of  them.  Why  not  to  their  own  new 
member?  He  had  dined  with  them,  and  she  had  sat  next 
him.  A  nice  man,  well  read,  not  bigoted.  He  even  sym- 
pathised with  Labour,  but  did  not  think  they  knew  their 


OVERTHERIVER  35 

way  about  as  yet.  In  fact  he  was  rather  notably  what  the 
drunken  youth  in  the  play  called:  *A  Tory  Socialist.'  He 
had  opened  out  to  her  and  been  very  frank  and  pleasant. 
An  attractive  man,  with  his  crisp  dark  hair,  brown  com- 
plexion, little  dark  moustache  and  rather  high  soft  voice;  a 
good  sort,  energetic  and  upright-looking.  But  probably  he 
already  had  a  secretary.  However,  if  Clare  was  in  earnest, 
one  could  ask.  She  crossed  the  hall  to  the  garden  door. 
There  was  a  seat  in  the  porch  outside,  and  under  it  Foch 
would  be  crouched,  waiting  to  be  let  in.  Sure  enough,  he 
emerged,  fluttering  his  tail,  and  padded  towards  the 
dogs'  communal  water-bowl.  How  cold  and  silent! 
Nothing  on  the  road;  even  the  owls  quiet;  the  garden  and 
the  fields  frozen,  moonlit,  still,  away  up  to  that  long  line  of 
covert!  England  silvered  and  indifferent  to  her  fate,  dis- 
believing in  the  Voice  o'er  Eden;  old  and  permanent  and 
beautiful,  even  though  the  pound  had  gone  off  gold. 
Dinny  gazed  at  the  unfeverish  night.  Men  and  their 
policies — how  little  they  mattered,  how  soon  they  passed, 
a  dissolving  dew  on  the  crystal  immensity  of  God's  toy! 
How  queer — the  passionate  intensity  of  one's  heart,  and  the 
incalculable  cold  callousness  of  Time  and  Spacel  To  join, 
to  reconcile?  .  .  . 

She  shivered  and  shut  the  door.  « 

At  breakfast  the  next  morning  she  said  to  Clare: 

"Shall  we  strike  while  the  iron's  hot,  and  go  and  see  Mr. 
Dornford?" 

"Why?" 

"In  case  he  wants  a  secretary,  now  he's  in." 

"OhI  Is  he  in?" 

"Very  much  so."  Dinny  read  the  figures.  The  usual 
rather  formidable  Liberal  opposition  had  been  replaced  by 
a  mere  five  thousand  Labour  votes. 

"The  word  'national'  is  winning  this  election,"  said  Clare. 
"Where  I  went  canvassing  in  the  town  they  were  all 
Liberals.  I  just  used  the  word  'national,'  and  they  fell." 


36  OVERTHERIVER 

Hearing  that  the  new  Member  would  be  at  his  head- 
quarters all  the  morning,  the  sisters  started  about  eleven 
o'clock.  There  was  so  much  coming  and  going  round  the 
doors  that  they  did  not  like  to  enter. 

"I  do  hate  asking  for  things,"  said  Clare. 

Dinny,  who  hated  it  quite  as  much,  answered: 

"Wait  here  and  I'll  just  go  in  and  congratulate  him.  I 
might  have  a  chance  of  putting  in  a  word.  He's  seen  you, 
of  course." 

"Oh!  yes,  he's  seen  me  all  right." 

Eustace  Dornford,  K.C.,  new  member  elect,  was  sitting 
in  a  room  that  seemed  all  open  doors,  running  his  eye  over 
the  lists  his  agent  was  putting  on  the  table  before  him. 
From  one  of  those  doors  Dinny  could  see  his  riding  boots 
under  the  table,  and  his  bowler  hat,  gloves  and  riding  whip 
upon  it.  Now  that  she  was  nearly  in  the  presence  it  seemed 
impossible  to  intrude  at  such  a  moment,  and  she  was  just 
slipping  away  when  he  looked  up. 

"Excuse  me  a  moment,  Minns.  Miss  Cherrell!" 

She  stopped  and  turned.  He  was  smiling  and  looking 
pleased. 

"Anything  I  can  do  for  you?" 

She  put  out  her  hand. 

"I'm  awfully  glad  you've  won.  My  sister  and  I  just 
wanted  to  congratulate  you." 

He  squeezed  her  hand,  and  Dinny  thought:  'Oh!  dear! 
this  is  the  last  moment  to  ask  him/  but  she  said: 

"It's  perfectly  splendid,  there's  never  been  such  a 
majority  here." 

"And  never  will  be  again.  That's  my  luck.  Where's 
your  sister?" 

"In  the  car." 

"I'd  like  to  thank  her  for  canvassing." 

"Oh!"  said  Dinny,  "she  enjoyed  it;"  and,  suddenly  feeling 
that  it  was  now  or  never,  added:  "She's  at  a  loose  end,  you 
know,  badly  wants  something  to  do.  Mr.  Dornford,  you 


OVERTHERIVER  37 

don't  think — this  is  too  bad — but  I  suppose  she  wouldn't 
be  of  any  use  to  you  as  a  secretary,  would  she?  There,  it's 
outl  She  does  know  the  county  pretty  well;  she  can  type, 
and  speak  French,  and  German  a  little,  if  that's  any  use." 
It  had  come  with  a  rush,  and  she  stood  looking  at  him 
ruefully.  But  his  eager  expression  had  not  changed. 

"Let's  go  and  see  her,"  he  said. 

Dinny  thought:  'Gracious!  I  hope  he  hasn't  fallen  in 
love  with  her!'  and  she  glanced  at  him  sidelong.  Still 
smiling,  his  face  looked  shrewd  now.  Clare  was  standing 
beside  the  car.  'I  wish/  thought  Dinny,  *I  had  her  cool- 
ness.' Then  she  stood  still  and  watched.  All  this  triumphal 
business,  these  people  coming  and  going,  those  two  talking 
so  readily  and  quickly;  the  clear  and  sparkling  morning! 
He  came  back  to  her. 

"Thank  you  most  awfully,  Miss  Cherrell.  It'll  do 
admirably.  I  did  want  someone,  and  your  sister  is  very 
modest." 

"I  thought  you'd  never  forgive  me  for  asking  at  such  a 
moment." 

"Always  delighted  for  you  to  ask  anything  at  any 
'moment.  I  must  go  back  now,  but  I'll  hope  to  see  you 
again  very  soon." 

Gazing  after  him  as  he  re-entered  the  building,  she 
thought:  'He  has  very  nicely  cut  riding  breeches!'  And  she 
got  into  the  car. 

"Dinny,"  said  Clare,  with  a  laugh,  "he's  in  love  with 
you." 

"What!" 

"I  asked  for  two  hundred,  and  he  made  it  two  hundred 
and  fifty  at  once.  How  did  you  do  it  in  one  evening?" 

"I  didn't.  It's  you  he's  in  love  with,  I'm  afraid." 

"No,  no,  my  dear.  I  have  eyes,  and  I  know  it's  you;  just 
as  you  knew  that  Tony  Croom  was  in  love  with  me." 

"I  could  see  that." 

"And  I  could  see  this." 


38  OVER     THE     RIVER 

Dinny  said  quietly:  "That's  absurd.  When  do  you 
begin?" 

"He's  going  back  to  Town  to-day.  He  lives  in  the 
Temple — Harcourt  Buildings.  I  shall  go  up  this  afternoon, 
and  start  in  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"Where  shall  you  live?" 

"I  think  I  shall  take  an  unfurnished  room  or  a  small 
studio,  and  decorate  and  furnish  it  gradually  myself.  It'll 
be  fun." 

"Aunt  Em  is  going  back  this  afternoon.  She  would  put 
you  up  till  you  find  it." 

"Well,"  said  Clare,  pondering;  "perhaps." 

Just  before  they  reached  home  Dinny  said: 

"What  about  Ceylon,  Clare?  Have  you  thought  any 
more?" 

"What's  the  good  of  thinking?  I  suppose  he'll  do  some- 
thing, but  I  don't  know  what,  and  I  don't  care." 

"Haven't  you  had  a  letter?" 

"No."  / 

"Well,  darling,  be  careful." 

Clare  shrugged:  "Ohl  I'll  be  careful." 

"Could  he  get  leave  if  he  wanted?" 

"I  expect  so." 

"You'll  keep  in  touch  with  me,  won't  you?" 

Clare  leaned  sideways  from  the  wheel  and  gave  her  cheek 
a  kiss. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THREE  days  after  their  meeting  at  the  Coffee  House,  young 
Groom  received  a  letter  from  Sir  Lawrence  Mont,  saying 
that  his  cousin  Muskham  was  not  expecting  the  Arab 
mares  till  the  spring.  In  the  meantime  he  would  make  a 
note  of  Mr.  Croom  and  a  point  of  seeing  him  soon.  Did 
Mr.  Croom  know  any  vernacular  Arabic? 

'No/  thought  young  Croom,  'but  I  know  Stapylton.' 

Stapylton,  of  the  Lancers,  who  had  been  his  senior  at 
Wellington,  was  home  from  India  on  leave.  A  noted  polo 
player,  he  would  be  sure  to  know  the  horse  jargon  of  the 
East;  but,  having  broken  his  thigh-bone  schooling  a 
steeplechaser,  he  would  keep;  the  business  of  finding  an 
immediate  'job  of  work*  would  not.  Young  Croom 
continued  his  researches.  Everyone  said:  'Wait  till  the 
election's  over!* 

On  the  morning  after  the  election,  therefore,  he  issued 
from  Ryder  Street  with  the  greater  expectation,  and,  on  the 
evening  after,  returned  to  the  Coffee  House,  with  the  less, 
thinking:  'I  might  just  as  well  have  gone  to  Newmarket 
and  seen  the  Cambridgeshire.' 

The  porter  handed  him  a  note,  and  his  heart  began  to 
thump.  Seeking  a  corner,  he  read: 
"DEAR  TONY — 

"I  have  got  the  job  of  secretary  to  our  new  member, 
Eustace  Dornford,  who's  a  K.C.  in  the  Temple.  So  I've 
come  up  to  Town.  Till  I  find  a  tent  of  my  own,  I  shall  be  at 
my  Aunt  Lady  Mont's  in  Mount  Street.  I  hope  you've  been 
as  lucky.  I  promised  to  let  you  know  when  I  came  up;  but 
I  adjure  you  to  sense  and  not  sensibility,  and  to  due  regard 
for  pride  and  prejudice. 

"Your  shipmate  and  well-wisher, 

"CLARE  COR  YEN." 
39 


40  OVERTHERIVER 

'The  darlingl'  he  thought.  'What  luckl'  He  read  the 
note  again,  placed  it  beneath  the  cigarette  case  in  his  left- 
hand  waistcoat  pocket,  and  went  into  the  smoking-room. 
There,  on  a  sheet  of  paper  stamped  with  the  Club's  imme- 
morial design,  he  poured  out  an  ingenuous  heart: 

"DARLING  CLARE, — 

"Your  note  has  perked  me  up  no  end.  That  you  will 
be  in  Town  is  magnificent  news.  Your  uncle  has  been 
very  kind  to  me,  and  I  shall  simply  have  to  call  and  thank 
him.  So  do  look  out  for  me  about  six  o'clock  to-morrow. 
I  spend  all  my  time  hunting  a  job,  and  am  beginning  to 
realise  what  it  means  to  poor  devils  to  be  turned  down 
day  after  day.  When  my  pouch  is  empty,  and  that's  not 
far  away,  it'll  be  even  worse  for  me.  No  dole  for  this 
child,  unfortunately.  I  hope  the  pundit  you're  going  to 
take  in  hand  is  a  decent  sort.  I  always  think  of  M.P.'s 
as  a  bit  on  the  wooden  side.  And  somehow  I  can't  see 
you  among  Bills  and  petitions  and  letters  about  public- 
house  licences  and  so  forth.  However,  I  think  you're 
splendid  to  want  to  be  independent.  What  a  thumping 
majority!  If  they  can't  do  things  with  that  behind  them, 
they  can't  do  things  at  all.  It's  quite  impossible  for  me 
not  to  be  in  love  with  you,  you  know,  and  to  long  to  be 
with  you  all  day  and  all  night,  too.  But  I'm  going  to  be 
as  good  as  I  can,  because  the  very  last  thing  I  want  is  to 
cause  you  uneasiness  of  any  sort.  I  think  of  you  all  the 
time,  even  when  I'm  searching  the  marble  countenance  of 
some  fish-faced  blighter  to  see  if  my  piteous  tale  is 
weakening  his  judgment.  The  fact  is  I  love  you  terribly. 
To-morrow,  Thursday,  about  sixl 

"Good-night,  dear  and  lovely  one, 

"Your  TONY." 

Having  looked  up  Sir  Lawrence's  number  in  Mount 
Street,  he  addressed  the  note,  licked  the  envelope  with 


OVERTHERIVER  41 

passion,  and  went  out  to  post  it  himself.  Then,  suddenly, 
he  did  not  feel  inclined  to  return  to  the  Coffee  House. 
The  place  had  a  grudge  against  his  state  of  mind.  Clubs 
were  so  damned  male,  and  their  whole  attitude  to  women 
so  after-dinnerish — half  contempt,  half  lechery!  Funk- 
holes  they  were,  anyway,  full  of  comfort,  secured  against 
women,  immune  from  writs;  and  men  all  had  the  same 
armchair  look  once  they  got  inside.  The  Coffee  House, 
too,  about  the  oldest  of  all  clubs,  was  stuffed  with  regular 
buffers,  men  you  couldn't  imagine  outside  a  club.  'No!' 
he  thought.  Til  have  a  chop  somewhere,  and  go  to  that 
thing  at  Drury  Lane.' 

He  got  a  seat  rather  far  back  in  the  upper  boxes,  but, 
his  sight  being  very  good,  he  saw  quite  well.  He  was  soon 
absorbed.  He  had  been  out  of  England  long  enough  to 
have  some  sentiment  about  her.  This  pictorial  pageant  of 
her  history  for  the  last  thirty  years  moved  him  more  than 
he  would  have  confessed  to  anyone  sitting  beside  him. 
Boer  war,  death  of  the  Queen,  sinking  of  the  Titanicy 
Great  War,  Armistice,  health  to  1931 — if  anyone  asked 
him  afterwards,  he  would  probably  say:  'Marvellous!  but 
gave  me  the  pip  rather!'  While  sitting  there  it  seemed 
more  than  the  'pip';  the  heartache  of  a  lover,  who  wants 
happiness  with  his  mistress  and  cannot  reach  it;  the  feeling 
of  one  who  tries  to  stand  upright  and  firm  and  is  for  ever 
being  swayed  this  way  and  that.  The  last  words  rang  in 
his  ears  as  he  went  out:  'Greatness  and  dignity  and  peace.' 
Moving  and  damned  ironical!  He  took  a  cigarette  from 
his  case  and  lighted  it.  The  night  was  dry  and  he  walked, 
threading  his  way  through  the  streams  of  traffic,  with  the 
melancholy  howling  of  street-singers  in  his  ears.  Sky- 
signs  and  garbage!  People  rolling  home  in  their  cars, 
and  homeless  night-birds!  'Greatness  and  dignity  and 
peace!' 

'I  must  absolutely  have  a  drink/  he  thought.  The  Club 
seemed  possible  again  now,  even  inviting,  and  he  made 


4*  OVERTHERIVER 

towards  it.  *  "Farewell,  Piccadillyl  Good-bye,  Leicester 
Squarel"  '  Marvellous  that  scene,  where  those  Tommies 
marched  up  in  a  spiral  through  the  dark  mist,  whistling; 
while  in  the  lighted  front  of  the  stage  three  painted  girls 
rattled  out:  *  "We  don't  want  to  lose  you,  but  we  think 
you  ought  to  go."  '  And  from  the  boxes  on  the  stage  at 
the  sides  people  looked  down  and  clapped!  The  whole 
thing  there!  The  gaiety  on  those  girls*  painted  faces 
getting  more  and  more  put-on  and  heart-breaking!  He 
must  go  again  with  Clare!  Would  it  move  her?  And 
suddenly  he  perceived  that  he  didn't  know.  What  did 
one  know  about  anyone,  even  the  woman  one  loved?  His 
cigarette  was  scorching  his  lip,  and  he  spat  out  the  butt. 
That  scene  with  the  honeymooning  couple  leaning  over 
the  side  of  the  Titanic,  everything  before  them,  and 
nothing  before  them  but  the  cold  deep  sea!  Did  that 
couple  know  anything  except  that  they  desired  each  other? 
Life  was  damned  queer,  when  you  thought  about  it!  He 
turned  up  the  Coffee  House  steps,  feeling  as  if  he  had  lived 
long  since  he  went  down  them.  .  .  . 

It  was  just  six  o'clock  when  he  rang  the  bell  at  Mount 
Street  on  the  following  day. 

A  butler,  with  slightly  raised  eyebrows,  opened  the  door. 

"Is  Sir  Lawrence  Mont  at  home?" 

"No,  sir.   Lady  Mont  is  in,  sir." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  Lady  Mont.  I  wonder  if  I 
could  see  Lady  Corven  for  a  moment?" 

One  of  the  butler's  eyebrows  rose  still  higher.  'Ah!' 
he  seemed  to  be  thinking. 

"If  you'll  give  me  your  name,  sir." 

Young  Croom  produced  a  card. 

"  'Mr.  James  Bernard  Croom,'  "  chanted  the  butler. 

"Mr.  Tony  Croom,  tell  her,  please." 

"Quite!  If  you'll  wait  in  here  a  moment.  Oh!  here  is 
Lady  Corven." 


OVERTHER1VER  43 

A  voice  from  the  stairs  said: 

"Tony?  What  punctuality!  Come  up  and  meet  my 
Aunt." 

She  was  leaning  over  the  stair-rail,  and  the  butler  had 
disappeared. 

"Put  your  hat  down.  How  can  you  go  about  without  a 
coat?  I  shiver  all  the  time." 

Young  Groom  came  close  below  her. 

"Darling!"  he  murmured.  ,   „ 

She  placed  one  finger  to  her  lips,  then  stretched  it  down 
to  him,  so  that  he  could  just  reach  it  with  his  own. 

"Come  alongl"  She  had  opened  a  door  when  he  reached 
the  top,  and  was  saying:  "This  is  a  shipmate,  Aunt  Em. 
He's  come  to  see  Uncle  Lawrence.  Mr.  Croom,  my  Aunt, 
Lady  Mont." 

Young  Croom  was  aware  of  a  presence  slightly  swaying 
towards  him.  A  voice  said:  "Ah!  Ships!  Of  course!  How 
d'you  do?" 

Young  Croom,  aware  that  he  had  been  'placed/  saw 
Clare  regarding  him  with  a  slightly  mocking  smile.  If 
only  they  could  be  alone  five  minutes,  he  would  kiss  that 
smile  off  her  face!  He  would 1 

"Tell  me  about  Ceylon,  Mr.  Craven." 

"Croom,  Auntie.  Tony  Croom.  Better  call  him  Tony. 
It  isn't  his  name,  but  everybody  does." 

"Tony!   Always  heroes.   I  don't  know  why." 

"This  Tony  is  quite  ordinary." 

"Ceylon.    Did  you  know  her  there,  Mr. — Tony?" 

"No.   We  only  met  on  the  ship." 

"Ah!  Lawrence  and  I  used  to  sleep  on  deck.  That  was 
in  the  'naughty  nineties.'  The  river  here  used  to  be  full 
of  punts,  I  remember." 

"It  still  is,  Aunt  Em." 

Young  Croom  had  a  sudden  vision  of  Clare  and  himself 
in  a  punt  up  a  quiet  backwater.  He  roused  himself  and 
said: 


44  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"I  went  to  Cavalcade  last  night.    Great!" 

"Ah!"  said  Lady  Mont.  "That  reminds  me."  She  left 
the  room. 

Young  Groom  sprang  up. 

"Tony!  Behave!" 

"But  surely  that's  what  she  went  for!" 

"Aunt  Em  is  extraordinarily  kind,  and  I'm  not  going 
to  abuse  her  kindness." 

"But,  Clare,  you  don't  know  what " 

"Yes,  I  do.   Sit  down  again." 

Young  Groom  obeyed. 

"Now  listen,  Tony!  I've  had  enough  physiology  to  last 
me  a  long  time.  If  you  and  I  are  going  to  be  pals,  it's  got 
to  be  platonic." 

"Oh,  God!"  said  young  Groom. 

"But  it's  got  to;  or  else — we  simply  aren't  going  to  see 
each  other." 

Young  Groom  sat  very  still  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  hers, 
and  there  passed  through  her  the  thought:  'It's  going  to 
torture  him.  He  looks  too  nice  for  that.  I  don't  believe 
we  ought  to  see  each  other.' 

"Look!"  she  said,  gently,  "you  want  to  help  me,  don't 
you?  There's  lots  of  time,  you  know.  Some  day — 
perhaps." 

Young  Groom  grasped  the  arms  of  his  chair.  His  eyes 
had  a  look  of  pain. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  slowly,  "anything  so  long  as  I  can 
see  you.  I'll  wait  till  it  means  something  more  than 
physiology  to  you." 

Clare  sat  examining  the  glace  toe  of  her  slowly  wiggling 
shoe;  suddenly  she  looked  straight  into  his  brooding  eyes. 

"If,"  she  said,  "I  had  not  been  married,  you  would 
wait  cheerfully  and  it  wouldn't  hurt  you.  Think  of  me 
like  that." 

"Unfortunately  I  can't.   Who  could?" 

"I  see.  I  am  fruit,  not  blossom — tainted  by  physiology." 


OVERTHERIVER  45 

"Don't!  Oh!  Clare,  I  will  be  anything  you  want  to  you. 
And  if  I'm  not  always  as  cheery  as  a  bird,  forgive  me." 

She  looked  at  him  through  her  eyelashes  and  said: 
"Good!" 

Then  came  silence,  during  which  she  was  conscious  that 
he  was  fixing  her  in  his  mind  from  her  shingled  dark  head 
to  her  glact  kid  toe.  She  had  not  lived  with  Jerry  Corven 
without  having  been  made  conscious  of  every  detail  of 
her  body.  She  could  not  help  its  grace  or  its  provocation. 
She  did  not  want  to  torture  him,  but  she  could  not  find  it 
unpleasant  that  she  did.  Queer  how  one  could  be  sorry 
and  yet  pleased,  and,  withal,  sceptical  and  a  little  bitter. 
Give  yourself,  and  after  a  few  months  how  much  would 
he  want  you!  She  said  abruptly: 

"Well,  I've  found  rooms — a  quaint  little  hole — used  to 
be  an  antique  shop,  in  a  disused  mews." 

He  said  eagerly:  "Sounds  jolly.  When  are  you  going  in?" 

"Next  week." 

"Can  I  help?" 

"If  you  can  distemper  walls." 

"Rather!  I  did  all  my  bungalow  in  Ceylon,  two  or  three 
times  over." 

"We  should  have  to  work  in  the  evenings,  because  of 
my  job." 

"What  about  your  boss?  Is  he  decent?" 

"Very,  and  in  love  with  my  sister.  At  least,  I  think  so." 

"Oh!"  said  young  Croom  dubiously. 

Clare  smiled.  He  was  so  obviously  thinking:  'Could  a 
man  be  that  when  he  sees  you  every  day?' 

"When  can  I  come  first?" 

"To-morrow  evening,  if  you  like.  It's  2,  Melton  Mews, 
off  Malmesbury  Square.  I'll  get  the  stuff  in  the  morning, 
and  we'll  begin  upstairs.  Say  six-thirty." 

"Splendid!" 

"Only,  Tony — no  importunities.  'Life  is  real,  life  is 
earnest.'  " 


46  OVERTHERIVER 

Grinning  ruefully,  he  put  his  hand  on  his  heart. 

"And  you  must  go  now.  I'll  take  you  down  and  see  if 
my  Uncle's  come  in." 

Young  Groom  stood  up. 

"What  is  happening  about  Ceylon?"  he  said,  abruptly. 
"Are  you  being  worried?" 

Clare  shrugged.    "Nothing  is  happening  so  far." 

"That  can't  possibly  last.  Have  you  thought  things 
out?" 

"Thinking  won't  help  me.  It's  quite  likely  he'll  do 
nothing." 

"I  can't  bear  your  being "  he  stopped. 

"Come  along,"  said  Clare,  and  led  the  way  downstairs. 

"I  don't  think  I'll  try  to  see  your  Uncle,"  said  young 
Croom.  "To-morrow  at  half-past  six,  then."  He  raised 
her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  marched  to  the  door.  There  he 
turned.  She  was  standing  with  her  head  a  little  on  one 
side,  smiling.  He  went  out,  distracted. 

A  young  man,  suddenly  awakened  amid  the  doves  of 
Cytherea,  conscious  for  the  first  time  of  the  mysterious 
magnetism  which  radiates  from  what  the  vulgar  call  'a 
grass  widow,'  and  withheld  from  her  by  scruples  or  con- 
vention, is  to  be  pitied.  He  has  not  sought  his  fate.  It 
comes  on  him  by  stealth,  bereaving  him  ruthlessly  of  all 
other  interest  in  life.  It  is  an  obsession  replacing  normal 
tastes  with  a  rapturous  aching.  Maxims  such  as  'Thou 
shalt  not  commit  adultery,'  'Thou  shalt  not  covet  thy 
neighbour's  wife,'  'Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,'  become 
singularly  academic.  Young  Croom  had  been  brought  up 
to  the  tinkling  of  the  school  bell:  'Play  the  game!'  He 
now  perceived  its  strange  inadequacy.  What  was  the  game? 
Here  was  she,  young  and  lovely,  fleeing  from  a  partner 
seventeen  years  older  than  herself,  because  he  was  a  brute; 
she  hadn't  said  so,  but  of  course  he  must  be!  Here  was 
himself,  desperately  in  love  with  her,  and  liked  by  her — 
not  in  the  same  way,  but  still  as  much  as  could  be  expected! 


OVERTHERIVER  47 

And  nothing  to  come  of  it  but  tea  togetherl   There  was  a 
kind  of  sacrilege  in  such  waste. 

Thus  preoccupied  he  passed  a  man  of  middle  height  and 
alert  bearing,  whose  rather  cat-like  eyes  and  thin  lips  were 
set  into  a  brown  face  with  the  claws  of  many  little  wrinkles, 
and  who  turned  to  look  after  him  with  a  slight  contraction 
of  the  mouth  which  might  have  been  a  smile. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AFTER  young  Groom  had  gone  Clare  stood  for  a  moment 
in  the  hall  recollecting  the  last  time  she  had  gone  out  of 
that  front  door,  in  a  fawn-coloured  suit  and  a  little  brown 
hat,  between  rows  of  people  saying:  "Good  luck!"  and 
"Good-bye,  darling!"  and  "Give  my  love  to  ParisI" 
Eighteen  months  ago,  and  so  much  in  between!  Her  lip 
curled,  and  she  went  into  her  Uncle's  study. 

"Oh!  Uncle  Lawrence,  you  are  in!  Tony  Groom's  been 
here  to  see  you." 

"That  rather  pleasant  young  man  without  occupation?" 

"Yes.  He  wanted  to  thank  you." 

"For  nothing,  I'm  afraid."  And  Sir  Lawrence's  quick 
dark  eyes,  like  a  snipe's  or  woodcock's,  roved  sceptically 
over  his  pretty  niece.  She  was  not,  like  Dinny,  a  special 
favourite,  but  she  was  undoubtedly  attractive.  It  was 
early  days  to  have  messed  up  her  marriage;  Em  had  told 
him  and  said  that  it  wasn't  to  be  mentioned.  Well,  Jerry 
Corven!  People  had  always  shrugged  and  hinted.  Too 
bad!  But  no  real  business  of  his. 

A  subdued  voice  from  the  door  said: 

"Sir  Gerald  Corven  has  called,  Sir  Lawrence." 

Involuntarily  Sir  Lawrence  put  his  finger  to  his  lips. 
The  butler  subdued  his  voice  still  further. 

"I  put  him  in  the  little  room  and  said  I  would  see  if 
Lady  Corven  was  in." 

Sir  Lawrence  noted  Clare's  hands  hard  pressed  down 
on  the  back  of  the  chair  behind  which  she  was  standing. 

"Are  you  in,  Clare?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  her  face  was  hard  and  pale  as 
stone. 

"A  minute,  Blore.   Come  back  when  I  ring." 
48 


OVERTHERIVER  49 

The  butler  withdrew. 

"Now,  my  dear?" 

"He  must  have  taken  the  next  boat.  Uncle,  I  don't 
want  to  see  him." 

"If  we  only  say  you're  out,  he'll  probably  come 
again." 

Clare  threw  back  her  head.   "Well,  I'll  see  him!" 

Sir  Lawrence  felt  a  little  thrill. 

"If  you'd  tell  me  what  to  say,  I'd  see  him  for  you." 

"Thank  you,  Uncle,  but  I  don't  see  why  you  should  do 
my  dirty  work." 

Sir  Lawrence  thought:  'Thank  God!' 

"I'll  be  handy  in  case  you  want  me.  Good  luck,  my 
dear!"  And  he  went  out. 

Clare  moved  over  to  the  fire;  she  wanted  the  bell  within 
reach.  She  had  the  feeling,  well  known  to  her,  of  settling 
herself  in  the  saddle  for  a  formidable  jump.  'He  shan't 
touch  me,  anyway,'  she  thought.  She  heard  Blore's  voice 
say: 

"Sir  Gerald  Corven,  my  lady."  Quaint!  Announcing 
a  husband  to  his  wife!  But  staff  knew  everything! 

Without  looking  she  saw  perfectly  well  where  he  was 
standing.  A  surge  of  shamed  anger  stained  her  cheeks. 
He  had  fascinated  her;  he  had  used  her  as  every  kind  of 
plaything.  He  had ! 

His  voice,  cuttingly  controlled,  said: 

"Well,  my  dear,  you  were  very  sudden."  Neat  and  trim, 
as  ever,  and  like  a  cat,  with  that  thin-lipped  smile  and 
those  daring  despoiling  eyes! 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Only  yourself." 

"You  can't  have  me." 

"Absurd!" 

He  made  the  quickest  kind  of  movement  and  seized 
her  in  his  arms.  Clare  bent  her  head  back  and  put  her 
finger  on  the  bell. 


JO  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Move  back,  or  I  ring!"  and  she  put  her  other  hand 
between  his  face  and  hers.  "Stand  over  there  and  I'll  talk 
to  you,  otherwise  you  must  go." 

"Very  well!   But  it's  ridiculous." 

"Oh!  Do  you  think  I  should  have  gone  if  I  hadn't  been 
in  earnest?" 

"I  thought  you  were  just  riled,  and  I  don't  wonder. 
I'm  sorry." 

"It's  no  good  discussing  what  happened.  I  know  you, 
and  I'm  not  coming  back  to  you." 

"My  dear,  you  have  my  apology,  and  I  give  you  my 
word  against  anything  of  the  sort  again." 

"How  good  of  you!" 

"It  was  only  an  experiment.  Some  women  adore  it,  if 
not  at  the  time." 

"You  are  a  beast." 

"And  beauty  married  me.  Come,  Clare,  don't  be  silly, 
and  make  us  a  laughing-stock!  You  can  fix  your  own 
conditions." 

"And  trust  you  to  keep  them!  Besides,  that's  not  my 
idea  of  a  life.  I'm  only  twenty-four." 

The  smile  left  his  lips. 

"I  see.  I  noticed  a  young  man  come  out  of  this  house. 
Name  and  estate?" 

"TonyCroom.   Well?" 

He  walked  over  to  the  window,  and  after  a  moment's 
contemplation  of  the  street,  turned  and  said: 

"You  have  the  misfortune  to  be  my  wife." 

"So  I  was  thinking." 

"Quite  seriously,  Clare,  come  back  to  me." 

"Quite  seriously,  no." 

"I  have  an  official  position,  and  I  can't  play  about 
with  it.  Look  at  me!"  He  came  closer.  "I  may  be 
all  you  think  me,  but  Fm  neither  a  humbug  nor  old- 
fashioned.  I  don't  trade  on  my  position,  or  on  the 
sanctity  of  marriage,  or  any  of  that  stuff.  But  they 


OVERTHERIVER  5! 

still  pay  attention  to  that  sort  of  thing  in  the  Service, 
and  I  can't  afford  to  let  you  divorce  me." 

"I  didn't  expect  it." 

"What  then?" 

"I  know  nothing  except  that  I'm  not  coming  back." 

"Just  because  of ?" 

"And  a  great  deal  else."  The  cat-like  smile  had  come 
back  and  prevented  her  from  reading  what  he  was 
thinking. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  divorce  you?" 

Clare  shrugged.    "You  have  no  reason." 

"So  you  would  naturally  say." 

"And  mean." 

"Now  look  here,  Clare,  this  is  all  absurd,  and  quite 
unworthy  of  anyone  with  your  sense  and  knowledge  of 
things.  You  can't  be  a  perpetual  grass  widow.  You  didn't 
dislike  the  life  out  there." 

"There  are  some  things  that  can't  be  done  to  me,  and 
you  have  done  them." 

"I've  said  that  they  shan't  be  done  again." 

"And  I've  said  that  I  can't  trust  you." 

"This  is  going  round  the  mulberry  bush.  Are  you  going 
to  live  on  your  people?" 

"No.   I've  got  a  job." 

"Oh!  What?" 

"Secretary  to  our  new  Member." 

"You'll  be  sick  of  that  in  no  time." 

"I  don't  think  so." 

He  stood  staring  at  her  without  his  smile.  For  a  moment 
she  could  read  his  thoughts,  for  his  face  had  the  expression 
which  preludes  sex.  Suddenly  he  said:  "I  won't  stand  for 
another  man  having  you." 

It  was  a  comfort  to  have  seen  for  once  the  bottom  of 
his  mind.  She  did  not  answer. 

"Did  you  hear  me?" 

"Yes." 


52  OVERTHERIVER 

"I  meant  it." 

"I  could  see  that." 

"You're  a  stony  little  devil." 

"I  wish  I  had  been." 

He  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  room,  and  came  to  a 
stand  dead  in  front  of  her. 

"Look  at  me!  I'm  not  going  back  without  you.  I'm 
staying  at  the  Bristol.  Be  sensible,  there's  a  darling,  and 
come  to  me  there.  We'll  start  again.  I'll  be  ever  so  nice 
to  you." 

Her  control  gave  way,  and  she  cried  out:  "Oh,  for 
God's  sake,  understand!  You  killed  all  the  feeling  I  had 
for  you." 

His  eyes  dilated  and  then  narrowed,  his  lips  became  a 
line.  He  looked  like  a  horse-breaker. 

"And  understand  m"  he  said,  very  low,  "you  either 
come  back  to  me  or  I  divorce  you.  I  won't  leave  you  here, 
to  kick  your  heels." 

"I'm  sure  you'll  have  the  approval  of  every  judicious 
husband." 

The  smile  reappeared  on  his  lips. 

"For  that,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  have  a  kiss."  And 
before  she  could  stop  him  he  had  fastened  his  lips  on  hers. 
She  tore  herself  away  and  pressed  the  bell.  He  went 
quickly  to  the  door. 

"A.u  revoir!"  he  said,  and  went  out. 

Clare  wiped  her  lips.  She  felt  bewildered  and  exhausted, 
and  quite  ignorant  whether  to  him  or  to  her  the  day  had 
gone. 

She  stood  leaning  her  forehead  on  her  hands  over  the 
fire,  and  became  aware  that  Sir  Lawrence  had  come  back 
and  was  considerately  saying  nothing. 

"Awfully  sorry,  Uncle;  I  shall  be  in  my  digs  next 
week." 

"Have  a  cigarette,  my  dear." 

Clare    took    the    cigarette,    and    inhaled    its    comfort. 


OVERTHERIVER  53 

Her  uncle  had  seated  himself  and  she  was  conscious 
of  the  quizzical  expression  of  his  eyebrows. 

"Conference  had  its  usual  success?" 

Clare  nodded. 

"The  elusive  formula.  The  fact  is,  human  beings  are 
never  satisfied  with  what  they  don't  want,  however  cleverly 
it's  put.  Is  it  to  be  continued  in  our  next?" 

"Not  so  far  as  I'm  concerned." 

"Pity  there  are  always  two  parties  to  a  conference." 

"Uncle  Lawrence,"  she  said  suddenly,  "what  is  the  law 
of  divorce  now?" 

The  baronet  uncrossed  his  long  thin  legs. 

"I've  never  had  any  particular  truck  with  it.  I  believe 
it's  less  old-fashioned  than  it  was,  but  see  Whitaker"  He 
reached  for  the  red-backed  volume.  "Page  258 — here  you 
are,  my  dear." 

Clare  read  in  silence  while  he  gazed  at  her  ruefully.  She 
looked  up  and  said: 

"Then,  if  I  want  him  to  divorce  me,  I've  got  to  commit 
adultery." 

"That  is,  I  believe,  the  elegant  way  they  put  it.  In 
the  best  circles,  however,  the  man  does  the  dirty 
work." 

"Yes,  but  he  won't.  He  wants  me  back.  Besides,  he's 
got  his  position  to  consider." 

"There  is  that,  of  course,"  said  Sir  Lawrence,  thought- 
fully; "a  career  in  this  country  is  a  tender  plant." 

Clare  closed  the  Wbitaker. 

"If  it  weren't  for  my  people,"  she  said,  "I'd  give  him 
cause  to-morrow  and  have  done  with  it." 

"You  don't  think  a  better  way  would  be  to  give  partner- 
ship another  trial?" 

Clare  shook  her  head. 

"I  simply  couldn't." 

"That's  that,  then,"  said  Sir  Lawrence,  "and  it's  an 
awkward  'that.'  What  does  Dinny  say?" 


54  OVERTHERIVER 

"I  haven't  discussed  it  with  her.  She  doesn't  know  he's 
here." 

"At  present,  then,  you've  no  one  to  advise  you?" 

"No.   Dinny  knows  why  I  left,  that's  all." 

"I  should  doubt  if  Jerry  Corven  is  a  very  patient  man." 

Clare  laughed. 

"We're  neither  of  us  long-suffering." 

"Do  you  know  where  he  is  staying?" 

"At  the  Bristol." 

"It  might,"  said  Sir  Lawrence  slowly,  "be  worth  while 
to  keep  an  eye  on  him." 

Clare  shivered.  "It's  rather  degrading;  besides,  Uncle, 
I  don't  want  to  hurt  his  career.  He's  very  able,  you 
know." 

Sir  Lawrence  shrugged.  "To  me,"  he  said,  "and  to  all 
your  kin,  his  career  is  nothing  to  your  good  name.  How 
long  has  he  got  over  here?" 

"Not  long,  I  should  think." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  see  him,  and  try  to  arrange  that 
you  go  your  own  ways?" 

Clare  was  silent,  and  Sir  Lawrence,  watching  her, 
thought:  'Attractive,  but  a  lot  of  naughty  temper. 
Any  amount  of  spirit,  and  no  patience  at  all.'  Then  she 
said: 

"It  was  all  my  fault,  nobody  wanted  me  to  marry 
him.  I  hate  to  bother  you.  Besides,  he  wouldn't 
consent." 

"You  never  know,"  murmured  Sir  Lawrence.  "If  I  get 
a  natural  chance,  shall  I?" 

"It  would  be  lovely  of  you,  only " 

"All  right,  then.  In  the  meantime  young  men  without 
jobs — arc  they  wise?" 

Clare  laughed.  "Oh,  I've  'larned'  him.  Well,  thank 
you  frightfully,  Uncle  Lawrence.  You're  a  great  comfort. 
I  was  an  awful  fool;  but  Jerry  has  a  sort  of  power, 
you  know;  and  I've  always  liked  taking  risks.  I 


OVERTHERIVER  55 

don't  see  how  I  can  be  my  mother's  daughter,  she 
hates  them;  and  Dinny  only  takes  them  on  principle." 
She  sighed.  "I  won't  bore  you  any  more  now." 
And,  blowing  a  kiss,  she  went  out. 

Sir  Lawrence  stayed  in  his  armchair  thinking:  'Putting 
my  oar  in!  A  nasty  mess,  and  going  to  be  nastierl  Still, 
at  her  age  something's  got  to  be  done.  I  must  talk  to 
Dinny/ 


CHAPTER  VIII 

FROM  Condaford  the  hot  airs  of  election  time  had  cleared 
away,  and  the  succeeding  atmosphere  was  crystallised  in 
the  General's  saying: 

"Well,  those  fellows  got  their  deserts." 

"Doesn't  it  make  you  tremble,  Dad,  to  think  what  these 
fellows'  deserts  will  be  if  they  don't  succeed  in  putting  it 
over  now?" 

The  General  smiled. 

"  'Sufficient  unto  the  day,'  Dinny.  Has  Clare  settled 
down?" 

"She's  in  her  diggings.  Her  work  so  far  seems  to  have 
been  writing  letters  of  thanks  to  people  who  did  the  dirty 
work  at  the  cross-roads." 

"Cars?  Does  she  like  Dornford?" 

"She  says  he's  quite  amazingly  considerate." 

"His  father  was  a  good  soldier.  I  was  in  his  brigade  in 
the  Boer  War  for  a  bit."  He  looked  at  his  daughter  keenly, 
and  added:  "Any  news  of  Corven?" 

"Yes,  he's  over  here." 

"Oh!  I  wish  I  wasn't  kept  so  in  the  dark.  Parents  have 
to  stand  on  the  mat  nowadays,  and  trust  to  what  they  can 
hear  through  the  keyhole." 

Dinny  drew  his  arm  within  hers. 

"One  has  to  be  so  careful  of  their  feelings.  Sensitive 
plants,  aren't  you,  Dad?" 

"Well,  it  seems  to  your  mother  and  me  an  extraordinarily 
bad  lookout.  We  wish  to  goodness  the  thing  could  be 
patched  up." 

"Not  at  the  expense  of  Clare's  happiness,  surely?" 

"No,"  said  the  General,  dubiously,  "no;  but  there  you 
are  at  once  in  all  these  matrimonial  things.  What  is  and 

56 


OVERTHERIVER  57 

will  be  her  happiness?  She  doesn't  know,  and  you  don't, 
and  I  don't.  As  a  rule  in  trying  to  get  out  of  a  hole  you 
promptly  step  into  another." 

"Therefore  don't  try?  Stay  in  your  hole?  That's  rather 
what  Labour  wanted  to  do,  isn't  it?" 

"I  ought  to  see  him,"  said  the  General,  passing  over  the 
simile,  "but  I  can't  go  blundering  in  the  dark.  What  do 
you  advise,  Dinny?" 

"Let  the  sleeping  dog  lie  until  it  gets  up  to  bite  you." 

"You  think  it  will?" 

"I  do." 

"Bad!"  muttered  the  General.   "Clare's  too  young." 

That  was  Dinny 's  own  perpetual  thought.  What  at  the 
first  blush  she  had  said  to  her  sister:  "You  must  get  free," 
remained  her  conviction.  But  how  was  she  to  get  free? 
Knowledge  of  divorce  had  been  no  part  of  Dinny's  edu- 
cation. She  knew  that  the  process  was  by  no  means 
uncommon,  and  she  had  as  little  feeling  against  it  as  most 
of  her  generation.  To  her  father  and  mother  it  would 
probably  seem  lamentable,  doubly  so  if  Clare  were  divorced 
instead  of  divorcing — that  would  be  a  stigma  on  her  to  be 
avoided  at  almost  all  cost.  Since  her  soul-racking  experi- 
ence with  Wilfrid,  Dinny  had  been  very  little  in  London. 
Every  street,  and  above  all  the  park,  seemed  to  remind 
her  of  him  and  the  desolation  he  had  left  in  her.  It  was 
now,  however,  obvious  to  her  that  Clare  could  not  be  left 
unsupported  in  whatever  crisis  was  befalling. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  go  up,  Dad,  and  find  out  what's 
happening." 

"I  wish  to  God  you  would.  If  it's  at  all  possible  to 
patch  things  up,  they  ought  to  be." 

Dinny  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  believe  it  is,  and  I  don't  believe  you'd  wish  it 
if  Clare  had  told  you  what  she  told  me." 

The  General  stared.  "There  it  is,  you  see.  In  the 
dark." 


58  OVERTHERIVER 

"Yes,  dear,  but  till  she  tells  you  herself  I  can't  say 
more." 

"Then  the  sooner  you  go  up  the  better." 

Free  from  the  scent  of  horse,  Melton  Mews  was  some- 
what strikingly  impregnated  with  the  odour  of  petrol. 
This  bricked  alley  had  become,  indeed,  the  haunt  of  cars. 
To  right  and  to  left  of  her,  entering  late  that  afternoon, 
the  doors  of  garages  gaped  or  confronted  her  with  more 
or  less  new  paint.  A  cat  or  two  stole  by,  and  the  hinder 
parts  of  an  overalled  chauffeur  bending  over  a  carburettor 
could  be  seen  in  one  opening;  otherwise  life  was  at  a 
discount,  and  the  word  'mews'  no  longer  justified  by 
manure. 

No.  2  had  the  peacock-green  door  of  its  former  pro- 
prietress, whom,  with  so  many  other  luxury  traders,  the 
slump  had  squeezed  out  of  business.  Dinny  pulled  a 
chased  bell-handle,  and  a  faint  tinkle  sounded,  as  from 
some  errant  sheep.  There  was  a  pause,  then  a  spot  of  light 
showed  for  a  moment  on  a  level  with  her  face,  was 
obscured,  and  the  door  was  opened.  Clare,  in  a  jade-green 
overall,  said: 

"Come  in,  my  dear.  This  is  the  lioness  in  her  den,  'the 
Douglas  in  her  hall!'  " 

Dinny  entered  a  small,  almost  empty  room  hung  with 
the  green  Japanese  silk  of  the  antique  dealer  and  carpeted 
with  matting.  A  narrow  spiral  staircase  wormed  into  it 
at  the  far  corner,  and  a  subdued  light  radiated  from  a 
single  green-paper-shaded  bulb  hanging  in  the  centre.  A 
brass  electric  heater  diffused  no  heat. 

"Nothing  doing  here  so  far,"  said  Clare.  "Come 
upstairs." 

Dinny  made  the  tortuous  ascent,  and  stepped  into  a 
rather  smaller  sitting-room.  It  had  two  curtained  windows 
looking  over  the  mews,  a  couch  with  cushions,  a  little 
old  bureau,  three  chairs,  six  Japanese  prints,  which  Clare 
had  evidently  just  been  hanging,  an  old  Persian  rug  over 


OVERTHERIVER  59 

the  matted  floor,  an  almost  empty  bookcase,  and  some 
photographs  of  the  family  standing  on  it.  The  walls  were 
distempered  a  pale  grey,  and  a  gas  fire  was  burning. 

"Fleur  gave  me  the  prints  and  the  rug,  and  Aunt  Em 
stumped  up  the  bureau.  I  took  the  other  things  over." 

"Where  do  you  sleep?" 

"On  that  couch — quite  comfy.  I've  got  a  little  bath- 
dressing-room  next  door,  with  a  geyser,  and  a  what-d'ye- 
call-it,  and  a  cupboard  for  clothes." 

"Mother  told  me  to  ask  what  you  wanted." 

"I  could  do  with  our  old  Primus  stove,  some  blankets 
and  a  few  knives  and  forks  and  spoons,  and  a  small  tea- 
set,  if  there's  one  to  spare,  and  any  spare  books." 

"Right!"  said  Dinny.    "Now,  darling,  how  are  you?" 

"Bodily  fine,  mentally  rather  worried.  I  told  you  he 
was  over." 

"Does  he  know  of  this  place?" 

"Not  so  far.  You  and  Fleur  and  Aunt  Em — oh!  and 
Tony  Groom — are  the  only  people  who  know  of  it.  My 
official  address  is  Mount  Street.  But  he's  bound  to  find 
out  if  he  wants  to." 

"You  saw  him?" 

"Yes,  and  told  him  I  wasn't  coming  back;  and  I'm  not, 
Dinny;  that's  flat,  to  save  breath.  Have  some  tea?  I  can 
make  it  in  a  brown  pot." 

"No,  thank  you,  I  had  it  on  the  train."  She  was  sitting 
on  one  of  the  taken-over  chairs,  in  a  bottle-green  suit  that 
went  beautifully  with  her  beech-leaf-coloured  hair. 

"How  jolly  you  look,  sitting  there!"  said  Clare,  curling 
up  on  the  sofa.  "Gasper?" 

Dinny  was  thinking  the  same  about  her  sister.  Graceful 
creature,  one  of  those  people  who  couldn't  look  ungraceful; 
with  her  dark  short  hair,  and  dark,  alive  eyes,  and  ivory 
pale  face,  and  not  too  brightened  lips  holding  the  cigarette, 
she  looked — well,  'desirable.'  And,  in  all  the  circum- 
stances, the  word  appeared  to  Dinny  an  awkward  one. 


60  OVERTHERIVER 

Clare  had  always  been  vivid  and  attractive,  but  without 
question  marriage  had  subtly  rounded,  deepened,  and  in 
some  sort  bedevilled  that  attraction.  She  said  suddenly: 

"Tony  Groom,  you  said?" 

"He  helped  me  distemper  these  walls;  in  fact,  he 
practically  did  them,  while  I  did  the  bathroom — these  are 
better." 

Dinny's  eyes  took  in  the  walls  with  apparent  interest. 

"Quite  neat.   Mother  and  Father  are  nervous,  darling." 

"They  would  be." 

"Naturally,  don't  you  think?" 

Clare's  brows  drew  down.  Dinny  suddenly  remembered 
how  strenuously  they  had  once  debated  the  question  of 
whether  eyebrows  should  be  plucked.  Thank  heavenl 
Clare  never  had  yet. 

"I  can't  help  it,  Dinny.  I  don't  know  what  Jerry's  going 
to  do." 

"I  suppose  he  can't  stay  long,  without  giving  up  his 
job?" 

"Probably  not.  But  Fm  not  going  to  bother.  What 
will  be  will." 

"How  quickly  could  a  divorce  be  got?  I  mean  against 
him?" 

Clare  shook  her  head,  and  a  dark  curl  fell  over  her  fore- 
head, reminding  Dinny  of  her  as  a  child. 

"To  have  him  watched  would  be  pretty  revolting.  And 
I'm  not  going  into  court  to  describe  being  brutalised.  It's 
only  my  word  against  his.  Men  are  safe  enough." 

Dinny  got  up  and  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  couch. 

"I  could  kill  him!"  she  said. 

Clare  laughed. 

"He  wasn't  so  bad  in  many  ways.  Only  I  simply  won't 
go  back.  If  you've  once  been  skinned,  you  can't." 

Dinny  sat,  silent,  with  closed  eyes. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  at  last,  "how  you  stand  with  Tony 
Croom." 


OVERTHERIVER  6l 

"He's  on  probation.  So  long  as  he  behaves  I  like  to 
see  him." 

"If,"  said  Dinny  slowly,  "he  were  known  to  come  here, 
it  would  be  all  that  would  be  wanted,  wouldn't  it?" 

Clare  laughed  again. 

"Quite  enough  for  men  of  the  world,  I  should  think;  I 
believe  juries  can  never  withstand  being  called  that.  But 
you  see,  Dinny,  if  I  begin  to  look  at  things  from  a  jury's 
point  of  view,  I  might  as  well  be  dead.  And,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  feel  very  much  alive.  So  I'm  going  straight  ahead. 
Tony  knows  I've  had  enough  physiology  to  last  me  a 
long  time." 

"Is  he  in  love  with  you?" 

Their  eyes,  brown  and  blue,  met. 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  in  love  with  him?" 

"I  like  him — quite  a  lot.  Beyond  that  Fve  no  feeling 
at  present." 

"Don't  you  think  that  while  Jerry  is  here ?" 

"No.  I  think  I'm  safer  while  he's  here  than  when  he 
goes.  If  I  don't  go  back  with  him  he'll  probably  have  me 
watched.  That's  one  thing  about  him — he  does  what  he 
says  he'll  do." 

"I  wonder  if  that's  an  advantage.  Come  out  and  have 
some  dinner." 

Clare  stretched  herself. 

"Can't,  darling.  I'm  dining  with  Tony  in  a  little  grubby 
restaurant  suited  to  our  joint  means.  This  living  on  next 
to  nothing  is  rather  fun." 

Dinny  got  up  and  began  to  straighten  the  Japanese 
prints.  Clare's  recklessness  was  nothing  new.  To  come 
the  elder  sisterl  To  be  a  wet  blanketl  Impossiblel  She 
said: 

"These  are  good,  my  dear.  Fleur  has  very  jolly  things." 

"D'you  mind  if  I  change?"  said  Clare,  and  vanished  into 
the  bathroom. 


62  OVERTHERIVER 

Left  alone  with  her  sister's  problem,  Dinny  had  the 
feeling  of  helplessness  which  comes  to  all  but  such  as 
constitutionally  'know  better.'  She  went  dejectedly  to  the 
window  and  drew  aside  the  curtain.  All  was  darkish  and 
dingy.  A  car  had  drawn  out  of  a  neighbouring  garage  and 
stood  waiting  for  its  driver. 

'Imagine  trying  to  sell  antiques  here!'  she  thought.  She 
saw  a  man  come  round  the  corner  close  by  and  stop, 
looking  at  the  numbers.  He  moved  along  the  opposite 
side,  then  came  back  and  stood  still  just  in  front  of  No.  2. 
She  noted  the  assurance  and  strength  in  that  trim  over- 
coated  figure. 

'Good  heavens!'  she  thought:  'Jerry!'  She  dropped  the 
curtain  and  crossed  quickly  to  the  bathroom  door.  As  she 
opened  it  she  heard  the  desolate  tinkling  of  the  sheep-bell 
installed  by  the  antique  dealer. 

Clare  was  standing  in  her  underthings  under  the  single 
bulb,  examining  her  lips  with  a  hand-glass.  Dinny  filled 
the  remains  of  the  four  feet  by  two  of  standing  room. 

"Clare,"  she  said,  "it's  timln 

Clare  turned.  The  gleam  of  her  pale  arms,  the  shimmer 
of  her  silk  garments,  the  startled  light  in  her  dark  eyes, 
made  her  even  to  her  sister  something  of  a  vision. 

"Jerry?" 

Dinny  nodded. 

"Well,  I  won't  see  him."  She  looked  at  the  watch  on 
her  wrist.  "And  I'm  due  at  seven.  DamnI" 

Dinny,  who  had  not  the  faintest  desire  that  she  should 
keep  her  rash  appointment,  said,  to  her  own  surprise: 

"Shall  I  go?  He  must  have  seen  the  light." 

"Could  you  take  him  away  with  you,  Dinny?" 

"I  can  try." 

"Then  do,  darling.  It'd  be  ever  so  sweet  of  you.  I 
wonder  how  he's  found  out.  Helll  ,  It's  going  to  be  a 
persecution." 

Dinny  stepped  back  into  the  sitting-room,  turned  out 


OVERTHERTVER  63 

the  light  there,  and  went  down  the  twisting  stair.  The  sheep- 
bell  tinkled  again  above  her  as  she  went.  Crossing  that 
little  empty  room  to  the  door,  she  thought:  'It  opens 
inwards,  I  must  pull  it  to  behind  me/  Her  heart  beat  fast, 
she  took  a  deep  breath,  opened  the  door  swiftly,  stepped 
out  and  pulled  it  to  with  a  slam.  She  was  chest  to  chest 
with  her  brother-in-law,  and  she  started  back  with  an 
admirably  impromptu:  "Who  is  it?" 

He  raised  his  hat,  and  they  stood  looking  at  each  other. 

"Dinny!   Is  Clare  in?" 

"Yes;  but  she  can't  see  anyone." 

"You  mean  she  won't  see  me?" 

"If  you  like  to  put  it  that  way." 

He  stood  looking  intently  at  her  with  his  daring  eyes. 

"Another  day  will  do.   Which  way  are  you  going?" 

"To  Mount  Street." 

"I'll  come  with  you,  if  I  may." 

"Do." 

She  moved  along  at  his  side,  thinking:  'Be  carefull'  For 
in  his  company  she  did  not  feel  towards  him  quite  as  in 
his  absence.  As  everybody  said,  Jerry  Corven  had  charm! 

"Clare's  been  giving  me  bad  marks,  I  suppose?" 

"We  won't  discuss  it,  please;  whatever  she  feels,  I  do 
too." 

"Naturally.  Your  loyalty's  proverbial.  But  consider, 
Dinny,  how  provocative  she  is."  His  eyes  smiled  round 
at  her.  That  vision — of  neck,  and  curve,  and  shimmer, 
dark  hair  and  eyes!  Sex  appeal — horrible  expressionl 
"You've  no  idea  how  tantalising.  Besides,  I  was  always 
an  experimentalist." 

Dinny  stood  still  suddenly:  "This  is  my  sister,  you 
know." 

"You're  sure,  I  suppose?  It  seems  queer  when  one  looks 
at  you  both." 

Dinny  walked  on,  and  did  not  answer. 

"Now  listen,  Dinny,"  began  that  pleasant  voice.  "I'm  a 


64  OVERTHERIVER 

sensualist,  if  you  like,  but  what  does  it  matter?  Sex  is 
naturally  aberrational.  If  anyone  tells  you  it  isn't,  don't 
believe  them.  These  things  work  themselves  out,  and 
anyway  they're  not  important.  If  Clare  comes  back  to 
me,  in  two  years'  time  she  won't  even  remember.  She  likes 
the  sort  of  life,  and  I'm  not  fussy.  Marriage  is  very  much 
a  go-as-you-please  affair." 

"You  mean  that  by  that  time  you'll  be  experimenting 
with  someone  else?" 

He  shrugged,  looked  round  at  her,  and  smiled. 

"Almost  embarrassing  this  conversation,  isn't  it?  What 
J  want  you  to  grasp  is  that  J'm  two  men.  One,  and  it's 
the  one  that  matters,  has  his  work  to  do  and  means  to  do 
it.  Clare  should  stick  to  that  man,  because  he'll  give  her 
a  life  in  which  she  won't  rust;  she'll  be  in  the  thick  of 
affairs  and  people  who  matter;  she'll  have  stir  and  move- 
ment— and  she  loves  both.  She'll  have  a  certain  power, 
and  she's  not  averse  from  that.  The  other  man — well,  he 
wants  his  fling,  he  takes  it,  if  you  like;  but  the  worst  is 
over  so  far  as  she's  concerned — at  least,  it  will  be  when 
we've  settled  down  again.  You  see,  I'm  honest,  or  shame- 
less if  you  like  it  better." 

"I  don't  see,  in  all  this,"  said  Dinny  drily,  "where  love 
comes  in." 

"Perhaps  it  doesn't.  Marriage  is  composed  of  mutual 
interest  and  desire.  The  first  increases  with  the  years,  the 
latter  fades.  That  ought  to  be  exactly  what  she  wants." 

"I  can't  speak  for  Clare,  but  I  don't  see  it  that  way." 

"You  haven't  tried  yourself  out,  my  dear." 

"No,"  said  Dinny,  "and  on  those  lines  I  trust  I  never 
may.  I  should  dislike  alternation  between  commerce  and 
vice." 

He  laughed. 

"I  like  your  bluntness.  But  seriously,  Dinny,  you  ought 
to  influence  her.  She's  making  a  great  mistake." 

A  sudden  fury  seized  on  Dinny. 


OVER     THE     RIVER  65 

"I  think,"  she  said,  between  her  teeth,  "it  was  you  who 
made  the  great  mistake.  If  you  do  certain  things  to  certain 
horses  you're  never  on  terms  with  them  again." 

He  was  silent  at  that. 

"You  don't  want  a  divorce  in  the  family,"  he  said  at 
last,  and  looked  round  at  her  steadily.  "I've  told  Clare 
that  I  can't  let  her  divorce  me.  I'm  sorry,  but  I  mean  that. 
Further,  if  she  won't  come  back  to  me,  she  can't  go  as 
she  pleases." 

"You  mean,"  said  Dinny,  between  her  teeth,  "that  if 
she  does  come  back  to  you  she  can?" 

"That's  what  it  would  come  to,  I  daresay." 

"I  see.  I  think  I'll  say  good-night." 

"As  you  please.  You  think  me  cynical.  That's  as  may 
be.  I  shall  do  my  best  to  get  Clare  back.  If  she  won't 
come  she  must  watch  out." 

They  had  stopped  under  a  lamp-post  and  with  an  effort 
Dinny  forced  her  eyes  to  his.  He  was  as  formidable, 
shameless,  and  mesmerically  implacable  as  a  cat,  with  that 
thin  smile  and  unflinching  stare.  She  said,  quietly:  "I  quite 
understand.  Good-nightl" 

"Good-night,  Dinnyl  I'm  sorry,  but  it's  best  to  know 
where  we  stand.  Shake  hands?" 

Rather  to  her  surprise  she  let  him  take  her  hand,  then 
tuined  the  corner  into  Mount  Street. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SHE  entered  her  Aunt's  house  with  all  her  passionate 
loyalty  to  her  own  breed  roused,  yet  understanding  better 
what  had  made  Clare  take  Jerry  Corven  for  husband. 
There  was  mesmerism  about  him,  and  a  clear  shameless 
daring  which  had  its  fascination.  One  could  see  what  a 
power  he  might  be  among  native  peoples,  how  ruthlessly, 
yet  smoothly,  he  would  have  his  way  with  them;  and  how 
he  might  lay  a  spell  over  his  associates.  She  could  see, 
too,  how  difficult  he  might  be  to  refuse  physically,  until  he 
had  outraged  all  personal  pride. 

Her  Aunt's  voice  broke  her  painful  absorption  with  the 
words:  "Here  she  is,  Adrian." 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  her  Uncle  Adrian's  goatee- 
bearded  face  was  looking  over  his  sister's  shoulder. 

"Your  things  have  come,  my  dear.  Where  have  you 
been?" 

"With  Clare,  Auntie." 

"Dinny,"  said  Adrian,  "I  haven't  seen  you  for  nearly  a 
year." 

"This  is  where  we  kiss,  Uncle.  Is  all  well  in  Bloomsbury, 
or  has  the  slump  affected  bones?" 

"Bones  in  esse  are  all  right;  in  posse  they  look  dicky — 
no  money  for  expeditions.  The  origin  of  Homo  sapiens 
is  more  abstruse  than  ever." 

"Dinny,  we  needn't  dress.  Adrian's  stoppin'  for  dinner. 
Lawrence  will  be  so  relieved.  You  can  pow-wow  while 
I  loosen  my  belt,  or  do  you  want  to  tighten  yours?" 

"No,  thank  you,  Auntie." 

"Then  go  in  there." 

Dinny  entered  the  drawing-room  and  sat  down  beside 
her  Uncle.  Grave  and  thin  and  bearded,  wrinkled,  and 

66 


OVERTHERIVER  6j 

brown  even  in  November,  with  long  legs  crossed  and  a 
look  of  interest  in  her,  he  seemed  as  ever  the  ideal  pillar- 
box  for  confidences. 

"Heard  about  Clare,  Uncle?" 

"The  bare  facts,  no  whys  or  wherefores." 

"They're  not  'nice.'   Did  you  ever  know  a  sadist?" 

"Once — at  Margate.  My  private  school.  I  didn't  know 
at  the  time,  of  course,  but  I've  gathered  it  since.  Do  you 
mean  that  Corven  is  one?" 

"So  Clare  says.  I  walked  here  with  him  from  her  rooms. 
He's  a  very  queer  person." 

"Not  mentally  abnormal?"  said  Adrian,  with  a  shudder. 

"Saner  than  you  or  I,  dear;  he  wants  his  own  way 
regardless  of  other  people;  and  when  he  can't  get  it  he 
bites.  Could  Clare  get  a  divorce  from  him  without 
publicly  going  into  their  life  together?" 

"Only  by  getting  evidence  of  a  definite  act  of  mis- 
conduct." 

"Would  that  have  to  be  over  here?" 

"Well,  to  get  it  over  there  would  be  very  expensive, 
and  doubtful  at  that." 

"Clare  doesn't  want  to  have  him  watched  at  present." 

"It's  certainly  an  unclean  process,"  said  Adrian. 

"I  know,  Uncle;  but  if  she  won't,  what  chance  is 
there?" 

"None." 

"At  present  she's  in  the  mood  that  they  should  leave 
each  other  severely  alone;  but  if  she  won't  go  back  with 
him,  he  says  she  must  'look  out  for  herself.'  " 

"Is  there  anybody  else  involved,  then,  Dinny?" 

"There's  a  young  man  in  love  with  her,  but  she  says 
it's  quite  all  right." 

"H'ml  'Youth's  a  stuff '  as  Shakespeare  said.  Nice 

young  man?" 

"I've  only  seen  him  for  a  few  minutes;  he  looked  quite 
nice,  I  thought." 


68  OVERTHERfVER 

"That  cuts  both  ways." 

"I  trust  Clare  completely." 

"You  know  her  better  than  I  do,  my  dear;  but  I  should 
say  she  might  get  very  impatient.  How  long  can  Corven 
stay  over  here?" 

"Not  more  than  a  month  at  most,  she  thinks;  he's  been 
here  a  week  already." 

"He's  seen  her?" 

"Once.  He  tried  to  again  to-day.  I  drew  him  off.  She 
dreads  seeing  him,  I  know." 

"As  things  are  he  has  every  right  to  see  her,  you 
know." 

"Yes,"  said  Dinny,  and  sighed. 

"Can't  your  Member  that  she's  with  suggest  a  way  out? 
He's  a  lawyer." 

"I  wouldn't  like  to  tell  him.  It's  so  private.  Besides, 
people  don't  like  being  involved  in  matrimonial  squabbles." 

"Is  he  married?" 

"No." 

She  saw  him  look  at  her  intently,  and  remembered 
Clare's  laugh  and  words:  "Dinny,  he's  in  love  with 
you." 

"You'll  see  him  here  to-morrow  night,"  Adrian  went 
on.  "Em's  asked  him  to  dinner,  I  gather;  Clare  too,  I 
believe.  Quite  candidly,  Dinny,  I  don't  see  anything  to 
be  done.  Clare  may  change  her  mind  and  go  back,  or 
Corven  may  change  his  and  let  her  stay  without  bothering 
about  her." 

Dinny  shook  her  head.  "They're  neither  of  them  like 
that.  I  must  go  and  wash,  Uncle." 

Adrian  reflected  upon  the  undeniable  proposition  that 
everyone  had  his  troubles.  His  own  at  the  moment  were 
confined  to  the  fact  that  his  step-children,  Sheila  and 
Ronald  Ferse,  had  measles,  so  that  he  was  something  of  a 
pariah  in  his  own  house,  the  sanctity  attaching  to  an 
infectious  disease  having  cast  his  wife  into  purdah.  He 


OVERTHERIVER  69 

was  not  vastly  interested  in  Clare.  She  had  always  been 
to  him  one  of  those  young  women  who  took  the  bit 
between  their  teeth  and  were  bound  to  fetch  up  now  and 
again  with  broken  knees.  Dinny,  to  him,  was  worth  three 
of  her.  But  if  Dinny  were  going  to  be  worried  out  of  her 
life  by  her  sister's  troubles,  then,  indeed,  they  became 
important  to  Adrian.  She  seemed  to  have  the  knack  of 
bearing  vicarious  burdens:  Hubert's,  his  own,  Wilfrid 
Desert's,  and  now  Clare's. 

And  he  said  to  his  sister's  parakeet:  "Not  fair,  Polly,  is 
it?" 

The  parakeet,  who  was  used  to  him,  came  out  of  its  open 
cage  on  to  his  shoulder  and  tweaked  his  ear. 

"You  don't  approve,  do  you?" 

The  green  bird  emitted  a  faint  chattering  sound  and 
clutched  its  way  on  to  his  waistcoat.  Adrian  scratched  its 
poll. 

"Who's  going  to  scratch  her  poll?  Poor  Dinny!" 

His  sister's  voice  startled  him: 

"I  can't  have  Dinny  scratched  again." 

"Em,"  said  Adrian,  "did  any  of  us  worry  about  the 
others?" 

"In  large  families  you  don't.  I  was  the  nearest — gettin* 
Lionel  married,  and  now  he's  a  judge — depressin'.  Dorn- 
ford — have  you  seen  him?" 

"Never." 

"He's  got  a  face  like  a  portrait.  They  say  he  won  the 
long  jump  at  Oxford.  Is  that  any  good?" 

"It's  what  you  call  desirable." 

"Very  well  made,"  said  Lady  Mont.  "I  looked  him  over 
at  Condaford." 

"My  dear  Em!" 

"For  Dinny,  of  course.  What  do  you  do  with  a  gardener 
who  will  roll  the  stone  terrace?" 

"Tell  him  not  to." 

"Whenever  I  look  out  at  Lippin'hall,  he's  at  it,  takin* 


7O  OVERTHERIVER 

the  roller  somewhere  else.  There's  the  gong,  and  here's 
Dinny;  we'll  go  in." 

Sir  Lawrence  was  at  the  sideboard  in  the  dining-room, 
extracting  a  crumbled  cork. 

"Lafite  '65.  Goodness  knows  what  it'll  be  like.  Decant 
it  very  gently,  Blore.  What  do  you  say,  Adrian,  warm  it  a 
little  or  no?" 

"I  should  say  no,  if  it's  that  age." 

"I  agree." 

Dinner  began  in  silence.  Adrian  was  thinking  of  Dinny, 
Dinny  of  Clare,  and  Sir  Lawrence  of  the  claret. 

"French  art,"  said  Lady  Mont. 

"Ah!"  said  Sir  Lawrence:  "that  reminds  me,  Em;  some 
of  old  Forsyte's  pictures  are  going  to  be  lent.  Considering 
he  died  saving  them,  they  owe  it  to  him." 

Dinny  looked  up. 

"Fleur's  father?  Was  he  a  nice  man,  Uncle?" 

"Nice?"  repeated  Sir  Lawrence:  "It's  not  the  word. 
Straight,  yes:  careful,  yes — too  careful  for  these  times.  He 
got  a  picture  on  his  head,  you  know,  in  the  fire — poor  old 
chap.  He  knew  something  about  French  art,  though.  This 
exhibition  that's  coming  would  have  pleased  him." 

"There'll  be  nothing  in  it  to  touch  'The  Birth  of  Venus/  " 
said  Adrian. 

Dinny  gave  him  a  pleased  look. 

"That  was  divine,"  she  said. 

Sir  Lawrence  cocked  his  eyebrow. 

"I've  often  thought  of  going  into  the  question:  Why  a 
nation  ceases  to  be  poetic.  The  old  Italians — and  look  at 
them  nowl" 

"Isn't  poetry  an  effervescence,  Uncle?  Doesn't  it  mean 
youth,  or  at  least  enthusiasm?" 

"The  Italians  were  never  young,  and  they're  enthusiastic 
enough  now.  When  we  were  in  Italy  last  May  you  should 
have  seen  the  trouble  they  took  over  our  passports." 

"Touchin'l"  agreed  Lady  Mont. 


OVERTHERIVER  yi 

"It's  only  a  question,"  said  Adrian,  "of  the  means  of 
expression.  In  the  fourteenth  century  the  Italians  were 
expressing  themselves  in  daggers  and  verse,  in  the  fifteenth 
and  sixteenth  in  poison,  sculpture  and  painting,  in  the 
seventeenth  in  music,  in  the  eighteenth  in  intrigue,  in  the 
nineteenth  in  rebellion,  and  in  the  twentieth  their  poetry  is 
spelled  in  wireless  and  rules." 

"I  did  get  so  tired,"  murmured  Lady  Mont,  "of  seem' 
rules  I  couldn't  read." 

"You  were  fortunate,  my  dear;  I  could." 

"There's  one  thing  about  the  Italians,"  continued 
Adrian;  "century  by  century  they  throw  up  really  great 
men  of  one  sort  or  another.  Is  that  climate,  blood,  or 
scenery,  Lawrence?" 

Sir  Lawrence  shrugged.  "What  do  you  think  of  the 
claret?  Put  your  nose  to  it,  Dinny.  Sixty  years  ago,  you 
two  young  women  wouldn't  be  here,  and  Adrian  and  I 
would  be  soppy  about  it.  It's  as  near  perfect  as  makes  no 
matter." 

Adrian  sipped  and  nodded. 

"Absolutely  prime!" 

"Well,  Dinny?" 

"I'm  sure  it's  perfect,  dear — wasted  on  me." 

"Old  Forsyte  would  have  appreciated  this;  he  had 
wonderful  sherry.  Do  you  get  the  bouquet,  Em?" 

Lady  Mont,  who  was  holding  her  glass  with  her  elbow 
on  the  table,  moved  her  nostrils  delicately. 

"Such  nonsense,"  she  murmured,  "almost  any  flower 
beats  it." 

The  remark  caused  complete  silence. 

Dinny's  eyes  were  the  first  to  come  to  the  level. 

"How  are  Boswell  and  Johnson,  A%untie?" 

"I  was  tellin'  Adrian:  Boswell's  taken  to  rollin'  the  stone 
terrace,  and  Johnson's  lost  his  wife — poor  thing.  He's  a 
different  man.  Whistles  all  the  time.  His  tunes  ought  to  be 
collected." 


72  OVERTHERIVER 

"Survivals  of  old  England?" 

"No,  modern — he  just  wanders." 

"Talking  of  survivals,"  said  Sir  Lawrence,  "did  you  ever 
read  A.sk  Mamma,  Dinny?" 

"No;  who  wrote  it?" 

"Surtees.  You  should.  It's  a  corrective." 

"Of  what,  Uncle?" 

"Modernity." 

Lady  Mont  lowered  her  glass;  it  was  empty. 

"So  wise  of  them  to  be  stoppin'  this  picture  exhibition 
at  1900.  D'you  remember,  Lawrence — in  Paris,  all  those 
wiggly  things  we  saw,  and  so  much  yellow  and  light  blue — 
scrolls  and  blobs  and  faces  upside-down?  Dinny,  we'd 
better  go  up." 

And  when  presently  Blore  brought  the  message — 
Would  Miss  Dinny  go  down  to  the  study?  She  mur- 
mured: 

"It's  about  Jerry  Corven.  Don't  encourage  your  Uncle — 
he  thinks  he  can  do  good,  but  he  can't."  .  .  . 

"Well,  Dinny?"  said  Sir  Lawrence:  "I  always  like  talking 
to  Adrian;  he's  a  well-tempered  fellow  with  a  mind  of  his 
own.  I  told  Clare  I  would  see  Corven,  but  it's  no  good 
seeing  him  without  knowing  what  one  wants  to  say.  And 
not  much  then,  I'm  afraid.  What  do  you  think?" 

Dinny,  who  had  seated  herself  on  the  edge  of  her  chair, 
set  her  elbows  on  her  knees.  It  was  an  attitude  from  which 
Sir  Lawrence  augured  ill. 

"Judging  from  what  he  said  to  me  to-day,  Uncle 
Lawrence,  his  mind's  made  up.  Either  Clare  must  go  back 
to  him  or  he'll  try  to  divorce  her." 

"How  will  your  people  feel  about  that?" 

"Very  badly." 

"You  know  there's  a  young  man  hanging  round?" 

"Yes." 

"He  hasn't  a  bean." 

Dinny  smiled.  "We're  used  to  that." 


OVERTHERIVER  73 

"I  know,  but  no  beans  when  you're  out  of  bounds  is 
serious.  Corven  might  claim  damages,  he  looks  a  vindictive 
sort  of  chap." 

"D'you  really  think  he  would?  It's  very  bad  form, 
nowadays,  isn't  it?" 

"Form  matters  very  little  when  a  man's  monkey  is  up.  I 
suppose  you  couldn't  get  Clare  to  apply  the  closure  to 
young  Groom?" 

"I'm  afraid  Clare  will  refuse  to  be  dictated  to  about 
whom  she  sees.  She  thinks  the  break-up  is  entirely  Jerry's 
fault." 

"I,"  said  Sir  Lawrence,  emitting  a  slow  puff,  "am  in 
favour  of  having  Corven  watched  while  he's  over  here,  and 
collecting  a  shot,  if  possible,  to  fire  across  his  bows,  but  she 
doesn't  like  the  idea  of  that." 

"She  believes  in  his  career,  and  doesn't  want  to  spoil  it. 
Besides,  it's  so  revolting." 

Sir  Lawrence  shrugged. 

"What  would  you?  The  law's  the  law.  He  belongs  to 
Burton's.  Shall  I  waylay  him  there  and  appeal  to  him  to 
leave  her  here  quietly,  and  see  if  absence  will  make  her 
heart  grow  fond  again?" 

Dinny  wrinkled  her  brows. 

"It  might  be  worth  trying,  but  I  don't  believe  he'll 
budge." 

"What  line  are  you  going  to  take  yourself?" 

"Back  Clare  in  whatever  she  does  or  doesn't  do." 

Sir  Lawrence  nodded,  having  received  the  answer  he 
expected. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  quality  which  from  time  immemorial  has  made  the 
public  men  of  England  what  they  are,  tempted  so  many 
lawyers  into  Parliament,  caused  so  many  divines  to  put  up 
with  being  bishops,  floated  so  many  financiers,  saved  so 
many  politicians  from  taking  thought  for  the  morrow,  and 
so  many  judges  from  the  pangs  of  remorse,  was  present  in 
Eustace  Dornford  to  no  small  degree.  Put  more  shortly, 
he  had  an  excellent  digestion;  could  eat  and  drink  at  all 
times  without  knowing  anything  about  it  afterwards.  He 
was  an  indefatigably  hard  worker  even  at  play;  and  there 
was  in  him  just  that  added  fund  of  nervous  energy  which 
differentiates  the  man  who  wins  the  long  iump  from  the 
man  who  loses  it.  And  now,  though  his  practice  was  going 
up  by  leaps  and  bounds  since,  two  years  ago,  he  had  taken 
silk,  he  had  stood  for  Parliament.  And  yet  he  was  the  last 
sort  of  man  to  incur  the  epithet  'go-getter.*  His  pale- 
brown,  hazel-eyed,  well-featured  face  had  a  considerate, 
even  a  sensitive  look,  and  a  pleasant  smile.  He  had  kept  a 
little  fine  dark  moustache,  and  his  wig  had  not  yet  depleted 
his  natural  hair,  which  was  dark  and  of  rather  curly 
texture.  After  Oxford  he  had  eaten  dinners  and  gone  into 
the  Chambers  of  a  well-known  Common  Law  Junior. 
Being  a  subaltern  in  the  Shropshire  Yeomanry  when  the 
war  broke  out,  he  had  passed  into  the  Cavalry,  and  not  long 
after  into  the  trenches,  where  he  had  known  better  luck 
than  most  people.  His  rise  at  the  Bar"after  the  war  had  been 
rapid.  Solicitors  liked  him.  He  never  fell  foul  of  judges, 
and  as  a  cross-examiner  stood  out,  because  he  almost 
seemed  to  regret  the  points  he  scored.  He  was  a  Roman 
Catholic,  from  breeding  rather  than  observance.  Finally, 
he  was  fastidious  in  matters  of  sex,  and  his  presence  at  a 

74 


OVERTHERIVER  75 

dinner-table  on  circuit  had,  if  not  a  silencing,  at  least  a 
moderating  effect  on  tongues. 

He  occupied  in  Harcourt  Buildings  a  commodious  set  of 
chambers  designed  for  life  as  well  as  learning.  Early  every 
morning,  wet  or  fine,  he  went  for  a  ride  in  the  Row,  having 
already  done  at  least  two  hours'  work  on  his  cases.  By  ten 
o'clock,  bathed,  breakfasted,  and  acquainted  with  the 
morning's  news,  he  was  ready  for  the  Courts.  When  at 
four  those  Courts  rose,  he  was  busy  again  till  half -past  six 
on  his  cases.  The  evenings,  hitherto  free,  would  now  be 
spent  at  the  House:  and  since  it  would  be  seldom  that  he 
could  go  to  bed  without  working  an  hour  or  so  on  some 
case  or  other,  his  sleep  was  likely  to  be  curtailed  from  six 
hours  to  five,  or  even  four. 

The  arrangement  come  to  with  Clare  was  simple.  She 
arrived  at  a  quarter  to  ten,  opened  his  correspondence,  and 
took  his  instructions  from  ten  to  a  quarter  past.  She 
remained  to  do  what  was  necessary,  and  came  again  at  six 
o'clock,  ready  for  anything  fresh  or  left  over. 

On  the  evening  after  that  last  described,  at  the  hour  of 
eight-fifteen,  he  entered  the  drawing-room  in  Mount 
Street,  was  greeted,  and  introduced  to  Adrian,  who  had 
again  been  bidden.  Discussing  the  state  of  the  pound  and 
other  grave  matters,  they  waited,  till  Lady  Mont  said 
suddenly:  "Soup.  What  have  you  done  with  Clare,  Mr. 
Dornford?" 

His  eyes,  which  had  hitherto  taken  in  little  but  Dinny, 
regarded  his  hostess  with  a  faint  surprise. 

"She  left  the  Temple  at  half-past  six,  saying  we  should 
meet  again." 

"Then,"  said  Lady  Mont,  "we'll  go  down." 

There  followed  one  of  those  discomfortable  hours  well 
known  to  well-bred  people,  when  four  of  them  are  anxious 
upon  a  subject  which  they  must  not  broach  to  the  fifth,  and 
the  fifth  becomes  aware  of  this  anxiety. 

They  were,  indeed,  too  few  for  the  occasion,  for  all  that 


•j6  OVERTHERIVER 

each  one  of  them  said  could  be.  heard  by  the  others.  It  was 
impossible  for  Eustace  Dornford  to  be  confidential  with 
either  of  his  neighbours;  and  since  he  instinctively  felt  that 
without  a  preliminary  confidence  he  would  only  put  his 
foot  into  it,  he  was  careful  to  be  public-minded  and  keep 
to  such  topics  as  the  Premier,  the  undiscovered  identity  of 
certain  poisoners,  the  ventilation  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
the  difficulty  of  knowing  exactly  what  to  do  with  one's  hat 
there,  and  other  subjects  of  general  interest.  But,  by  the 
end  of  dinner  he  was  so  acutely  aware  that  they  were  burning 
to  say  things  he  mustn't  hear,  that  he  invented  a  professional 
telephone  call,  and  was  taken  out  of  the  room  by  Blore. 

The  moment  he  had  gone  Dinny  said: 

"She  must  have  been  waylaid,  Auntie.  Could  I  be 
excused  and  go  and  see?" 

Sir  Lawrence  answered: 

"Better  wait  till  we  break,  Dinny;  a  few  minutes  can't 
matter  now." 

"Don't  you  think,"  said  Adrian,  "that  Dornford  ought 
to  know  how  things  stand?  She  goes  to  him  every  day." 

"I'll  tell  him,"  said  Sir  Lawrence. 

"No,"  said  Lady  Mont.  "Dinny  must  tell  him.  Wait  for 
him  here,  Dinny.  We'll  go  up." 

Thus  it  was  that,  returning  to  the  dining-room  after  his 
trunk-call  to  someone  whom  he  knew  to  be  away  from 
home,  Dornford  found  Dinny  waiting.  She  handed  him 
the  cigars  and  said: 

"Forgive  us,  Mr.  Dornford.  It's  about  my  sister. 
Please  light  up,  and  here's  coffee.  Blore,  would  you  mind 
getting  me  a  taxi?" 

When  they  had  drunk  their  coffee,  and  were  standing 
together  by  the  fire,  she  turned  her  face  to  it  and  went  on 
hurriedly: 

"You  see,  Clare  has  split  from  her  husband,  and  he's 
just  come  over  to  take  her  back.  She  won't  go,  and 
it's  rather  a  difficult  time  for  her." 


OVERTHERIVER  77 

Dornford  made  a  considerate  sound. 

"I'm  very  glad  you  told  me.  I've  been  feeling  unhappy 
all  dinner." 

"I  must  go  now,  I'm  afraid,  and  find  out  what's 
happened." 

"Could  I  come  with  you?" 

"Oh!  thank  you,  but " 

"It  would  be  a  real  pleasure." 

Dinny  stood  hesitating.  He  looked  like  a  present  help  in 
trouble;  but  she  said:  "Thank  you,  but  perhaps  my  sister 
wouldn't  like  it." 

"I  see.  Any  time  I  can  help,  please  let  me  know." 

"Your  taxi's  at  the  door,  Miss." 

"Some  day,"  she  said,  "I'd  like  to  ask  you  about 
divorce." 

In  the  taxi  she  wondered  what  she  would  do  if  she  could 
not  get  in;  and  then  what  she  would  do  if  she  could  get  in 
and  Corven  were  there.  She  stopped  the  cab  at  the  corner 
of  the  Mews. 

"Stay  here,  please,  I'll  let  you  know  in  a  minute  if  I  want 
you  again." 

Dark  and  private  loomed  that  little  backwater. 

'Like  one's  life,'  thought  Dinny,  and  pulled  at  the 
ornamental  bell.  It  tinkled  all  forlorn,  and  nothing 
happened.  Again  and  again  she  rang,  then  moved  back- 
ward to  look  up  at  the  windows.  The  curtains — she 
remembered  they  were  heavy — had  been  drawn  close;  she 
could  not  decide  whether  or  no  there  was  light  behind 
them.  Once  more  she  rang  and  used  the  knocker,  holding 
her  breath  to  listen.  No  sound  at  all!  At  last,  baffled  and 
disquiet,  she  went  back  to  the  cab.  Clare  had  said  Corven 
was  staying  at  the  Bristol,  and  she  gave  that  address. 
There  might  be  a  dozen  explanations;  only  why,  in  a  town 
of  telephones,  had  Clare  not  let  them  know?  Half-past  tenl 
Perhaps  she  had  by  nowl 

The  cab  drew  up  at  the  hotel.  "Wait,  please!"  Entering 


78  OVERTHERIVER 

its  discreetly  gilded  hall,  she  stood  for  a  moment  at  a  loss. 
The  setting  seemed  unsuitable  for  private  trouble. 

"Yes,  madam?'*  said  a  page-boy's  voice. 

"Could  you  find  out  for  me,  please,  if  my  brother-in-law, 
Sir  Gerald  Corven,  is  in  the  hotel?" 

What  should  she  say  if  they  brought  him  to  her?  Her 
figure  in  its  evening  cloak  was  reflected  in  a  mirror,  and 
that  it  was  straight  filled  her  with  a  sort  of  surprise — she 
felt  so  as  if  she  were  curling  and  creeping  this  way  and  that. 
But  they  did  not  bring  him  to  her.  He  was  not  in  his  room, 
nor  in  any  of  the  public  rooms.  She  went  out  again  to  her 
cab. 

"Back  to  Mount  Street,  please." 

Dornford  and  Adrian  were  gone,  her  Aunt  and  Uncle 
playing  piquet. 

"Well,  Dinny?" 

"I  couldn't  get  into  her  rooms,  and  he  was  not  in  his 
hotel." 

"You  went  there?" 

"It  was  all  I  could  think  of  to  do." 

Sir  Lawrence  rose.  "I'll  telephone  to  Burton's."  Dinny 
sat  down  beside  her  Aunt. 

"I  feel  she's  in  trouble,  Auntie.  Clare's  never  rude." 

"Kidnapped  or  locked  up,"  said  Lady  Mont.  "There 
was  a  case  when  I  was  young.  Thompson,  or  Watson — a 
great  fuss.  Habeas  corpus,  or  something — husbands  can't 
now.  Well,  Lawrence?" 

"He  hasn't  been  in  the  Club  since  five  o'clock.  We  must 
just  wait  till  the  morning.  She  may  have  forgotten,  you 
know;  or  got  the  evening  mixed." 

"But  she  told  Mr.  Dornford  that  they  would  meet 
again." 

"So  they  will,  to-morrow  morning.  No  good  worrying, 
Dinny." 

Dinny  went  up,  but  did  not  undress.  Had  she  done  all 
she  could?  The  night  was  clear  and  fine  and  warm  for 


OVERTHERIVER  79 

November.  Only  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so  away,  was  that 
backwater  of  Mews — should  she  slip  out  and  go  over  there 
again? 

She  threw  off  her  evening  frock,  put  on  a  day  dress,  hat 
and  fur  coat,  and  stole  downstairs.  It  was  dark  in  the  hall. 
Quietly  drawing  back  the  bolts,  she  let  herself  out,  and  took 
to  the  streets.  When  she  entered  the  Mews — where  a 
couple  of  cars  were  being  put  away  for  the  night — she  saw 
light  coming  from  the  upper  windows  of  No.  2.  They  had 
been  opened  and  the  curtains  drawn  aside.  She  rang  the 
bell. 

After  a  moment  Clare,  in  her  dressing-gown,  opened  the 
door. 

"Was  it  you  who  came  before,  Dinny?" 

"Yes." 

"Sorry  I  couldn't  let  you  in.  Come  upl" 

She  led  the  way  up  the  spiral  stairs,  and  Dinny  followed. 

Upstairs  it  was  warm  and  light,  the  door  into  the  tiny 
bathroom  open,  and  the  couch  in  disorder.  Clare  looked  at 
her  sister  with  a  sort  of  unhappy  defiance. 

"Yes,  I've  had  Jerry  here,  he's  not  been  gone  ten 
minutes." 

A  horrified  shiver  went  down  Dinny's  spine. 

"After  all,  he's  come  a  long  way,"  said  Clare;  "good  of 
you  to  worry,  Dinny." 

"Oh!  darling!" 

"He  was  outside  here  when  I  got  back  from  the  Temple. 
I  was  an  idiot  to  let  him  in.  After  that — oh!  well,  it  doesn't 
matter!  I'll  take  care  it  doesn't  happen  again." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  stay?" 

"Oh!  no.  But  have  some  tea.  I've  just  made  it.  I  don't 
want  anyone  to  know  of  this." 

"Of  course  not.  I'll  say  you  had  a  bad  headache  and 
couldn't  get  out  to  telephone." 

When  they  were  drinking  the  tea  Dinny  said: 

"This  hasn't  altered  your  plans?" 


80  OVERTHERIVER 

"God!  no!" 

"Dornford  was  there  to-night.  We  thought  it  best  to 
tell  him  you  were  having  a  difficult  time." 

Clare  nodded. 

"It  must  all  seem  very  funny  to  you." 

"It  seems  to  me  tragic." 

Clare  shrugged,  then  stood  up  and  threw  her  arms  round 
her  sister.  After  that  silent  embrace,  Dinny  went  out  into 
the  Mews,  now  dark  and  deserted.  At  the  corner  leading 
into  the  Square  she  almost  walked  into  a  young  man. 

"Mr.  Groom,  isn't  it?" 

"Miss  Cherrell?  Have  you  been  at  Lady  Corven's?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  she  all  right?" 

His  face  was  worried,  and  his  voice  anxious.  Dinny  took 
a  deep  breath  before  answering: 

"Oh!  yes.  Why  not?" 

"She  was  saying  last  night  that  man  was  over  here.  It 
worries  me  terribly." 

Through  Dinny  shot  the  thought:  'If  he'd  met  "that 
man"!'  But  she  said,  quietly: 

"Walk  with  me  as  far  as  Mount  Street." 

"I  don't  mind  your  knowing,"  he  said,  "I'm  over  head 
and  ears  in  love  with  her.  Who  wouldn't  be?  Miss 
Cherrell,  I  don't  think  she  ought  to  be  in  that  place 
alone.  She  told  me  he  came  yesterday  while  you  were 
there." 

"Yes.  I  took  him  away  with  me,  as  I'm  taking  you.  I 
think  my  sister  should  be  left  to  herself." 

He  seemed  to  hunch  himself  together. 

"Havej0#  ever  been  in  love?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  then  you  know." 

Yes,  she  knew! 

"It's  absolute  torture  not  to  be  with  her,  able  to  see  that 
she's  all  right.  She  takes  it  all  lightly,  but  I  can't." 


OVERTHERIVER  8l 

Takes  it  all  lightlyl  Clare's  face  looking  at  herl  She 
did  not  answer. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  young  Groom,  with  incoherence, 
"people  can  say  and  think  what  they  like,  but  if  they  felt  as 
I  feel,  they  simply  couldn't.  I  won't  bother  her,  I  really 
won't;  but  I  can't  stand  her  being  in  danger  from  that 
man." 

Dinny  controlled  herself  to  say  quietly:  "I  don't  think 
Clare's  in  any  danger.  But  she  might  be  if  it  were  known 
that  you "  He  met  her  eyes  squarely. 

"I'm  glad  she's  got  you.  For  God's  sake  look  after  her, 
Miss  Cherrell." 

They  had  reached  the  corner  of  Mount  Street,  and  she 
held  out  her  hand. 

"You  may  be  certain  that  whatever  Clare  does  I  shall 
stick  by  her.  Good-night!  And  cheer  upl" 

He  wrung  her  hand,  and  went  off  as  if  the  devil  were 
after  him.  Dinny  went  in,  and  slid  the  bolts  quietly. 

On  what  thin  icel  She  could  hardly  drag  one  foot  before 
the  other  as  she  went  upstairs,  and  sank  down  on  her  bed 
exhausted. 


CHAPTER  XI 

WHEN  Sir  Lawrence  Mont  reached  Burton's  Club  the 
following  afternoon  he  was  feeling,  in  common  with  many 
who  undertake  to  interfere  in  the  affairs  of  others,  an 
uneasy  self-importance  coupled  with  a  desire  to  be  some- 
where else.  He  did  not  know  what  the  deuce  he  was  going 
to  say  to  Corven,  or  why  the  deuce  he  should  say  it,  since, 
in  his  opinion,  by  far  the  best  solution  would  be  for  Clare 
to  give  her  marriage  another  trial.  Having  discovered 
from  the  porter  that  Sir  Gerald  was  in  the  Club,  he  poked 
his  nose  gingerly  into  three  rooms  before  locating  the  back 
of  his  quarry  seated  in  the  corner  of  an  apartment  too  small 
to  be  devoted  to  anything  but  writing.  He  sat  down  at  a 
table  close  to  the  door,  so  that  he  could  simulate  surprise 
when  Corven  came  up  to  leave  the  room.  The  fellow  was 
an  unconscionable  time.  Noting  a  copy  of  the  British 
Statesman's  vade-mecum  beside  him,  he  began  idly  looking 
up  the  figures  of  British  imports.  He  found  potatoes: 
consumption  sixty-six  million  five  hundred  thousand  tons, 
production  eight  million  eight  hundred  and  seventy-four 
thousand  tonsl  Somebody  the  other  day  had  written  to  say 
that  we  imported  forty  million  pounds'  worth  of  bacon 
every  year.  Taking  a  sheet  of  paper  he  wrote:  "Pro- 
hibition and  protection,  in  regard  to  food  that  we  can 
produce  here.  Annual  Imports:  Pigs,  £40,000,000;  Poultry 
say,  £12,000,000;  Potatoes — God  knows  how  much!  All 
this  bacon,  all  these  eggs,  and  half  these  potatoes  could  be 
produced  here.  Why  not  a  five-year  plan?  By  prohibition 
lessen  the  import  of  bacon  and  eggs  one-fifth  every  year, 
and  the  import  of  potatoes  by  one-tenth  every  year, 
increasing  home  production  gradually  to  replace  them.  At 
the  end  of  five  years  our  bacon  and  eggs  and  half  our 

82 


OVER     THE     RIVER  83 

potatoes  would  be  all-British.  We  should  save  eighty 
millions  on  our  Imports  Bill  and  our  trade  would  practic- 
ally be  balanced." 

Taking  another  sheet  of  paper,  he  wrote: 

"To  the  Editor  of  The  Times. 
"The  Three  P.  Plan. 
"SiR— 

"A  simple  plan  for  the  balancing  of  our  trade  would 
seem  to  merit  the  attention  of  all  those  not  wedded  to  the 
longest  way  round.  There  are  three  articles  of  food  on 

importing    which    we    expend    annually    some     

pounds,  but  which  could  be  produced  in  our  own  country 
without,  I  venture  to  think,  causing  the  price  of  living  to 
rise  to  any  material  extent  if  we  took  the  simple  precaution 
of  hanging  a  profiteer  at  the  beginning.  These  articles  are 
Pigs,  Poultry,  Potatoes.  There  would  be  no  need  to  put  on 
duties,  for  all  that  is  required  is " 

But  at  this  moment,  becoming  aware  that  Corven  was 
passing  from  the  room,  he  said: 

"Hallo!" 

Corven  turned  and  came  towards  him. 

Hoping  that  he  showed  as  little  sign  of  embarrassment  as 
his  nephew  twice  removed  by  marriage,  Sir  Lawrence  rose. 

"Sorry  I  didn't  see  you  when  you  called  the  other  day. 
Have  you  got  long  leave?" 

"Another  week  only,  and  then  I  shall  have  to  fly  the 
Mediterranean  probably." 

"Not  a  good  month  for  flying.  What  do  you  think  of 
this  adverse  balance  of  trade?" 

Jerry  Corven  shrugged. 

"Something  to  keep  them  busy  for  a  bit.  They  never  see 
two  inches  before  their  noses." 

"  'TifMs!  Une  montagne!'  Remember  the  Caran  d'Ache 
cartoon  of  Bullcr  in  front  of  Ladysmith?  No,  you  wouldn't. 


84  OVERTHERIVER 

It's  thirty-two  years  ago.  National  character  doesn't 
change  much,  does  it?  How's  Ceylon?  Not  in  love  with 
India,  I  hope?" 

"Nor  with  us  particularly,  but  we  jog  on." 

"The  climate  doesn't  suit  Clare,  apparenrly." 

Corven's  expression  remained  watchful  and  slightly 
smiling. 

"The  hot  weather  didn't,  but  that's  over." 

"Are  you  taking  her  back  with  you?" 

"Yes." 

"I  wonder  if  that's  wise." 

"To  leave  her  would  be  less  so.  One's  either  married  or 
not." 

Sir  Lawrence,  watching  his  eyes,  thought:  'Shan't  go 
further.  It's  hopeless.  Besides,  he's  probably  right.  Only 
I  would  bet ' 

"Forgive  me,"  said  Corven,  "I  must  get  these  letters 
off."  He  turned  and  moved  away,  trim  and  assured. 

'H'm!'  thought  Sir  Lawrence,  'not  exactly  what  you'd 
call  fruitful.'  And  he  sat  down  again  to  his  letter  to  The 
Times. 

"I  must  get  precise  figures,"  he  muttered.  "I'll  turn 
Michael  on  to  it"  .  .  .  And  his  thoughts  went  back  to 
Corven.  Impossible,  in  such  cases,  to  know  where  the 
blame  really  lay.  After  all,  a  misfit  was  a  misfit,  no  amount 
of  pious  endeavour,  or  even  worldly  wisdom,  would  cure 
it.  'I  ought  to  have  been  a  judge,'  he  thought,  'then  I  could 
have  expressed  my  views.  Mr.  Justice  Mont  in  the  course 
of  his  judgment  said:  "It  is  time  to  warn  the  people  of  this 
country  against  marriage.  That  tie,  which  was  all  very  well 
under  Victoria,  should  now  only  be  contracted  in  cases 
where  there  is  full  evidence  to  show  that  neither  party  has 
any  individuality  to  speak  of"  ...  I  think  I'll  go  home  to 
Em.'  He  blotted  the  perfectly  dry  letter  to  The  Times,  put  it 
into  his  pocket,  and  sought  the  darkening  placidity  of  Pall 
Mall.  He  had  stopped  to  look  in  at  the  window  of  his  wine 


OVERTHERIVER  85 

merchant's  in  St.  James's  Street,  and  consider  once  more 
where  the  extra  ten  per  cent  on  his  surtax  was  to  come 
from,  when  a  voice  said: 

"Good  evening,  Sir  Lawrence!"  It  was  the  young  man 
called  Groom. 

They  crossed  the  street  together. 

"I  wanted  to  thank  you,  sir,  for  speaking  to  Mr.  Musk- 
ham.  I've  seen  him  to-day." 

"How  did  you  find  him?" 

"Ohl  very  affable.  Of  course  I  agree  it  is  a  bee  in  his 
bonnet  about  introducing  that  cross  of  Arab  blood  into  our 
racehorses." 

"Did  you  show  him  you  thought  so?" 

Young  Groom  smiled:  "Hardly!  But  the  Arab  horse  is 
so  much  smaller." 

"There's  something  in  it,  all  the  same.  Jack's  only 
wrong  in  expecting  quick  results.  It's  like  politics,  people 
won't  lay  down  for  the  future.  If  a  thing  doesn't  work 
within  five  years,  we  think  it's  no  good.  Did  Jack  say  he'd 
take  you  on?" 

"He'll  give  me  a  trial.  I'm  to  go  down  for  a  week,  so 
that  he  can  see  me  with  horses.  But  the  mares  are  not  going 
to  Royston.  He's  got  a  place  for  them  above  Oxford  near 
Bablock  Hythe.  I  should  be  there  if  I  pass  muster.  It's  not 
till  the  spring,  though." 

"Jack's  a  formalist,"  said  Sir  Lawrence,  as  they  entered 
the  Coffee  House;  "you'll  have  to  mind  your  p's  and  q's." 

Young  Groom  smiled. 

"You  bet.  Everything's  simply  perfect  at  his  stud  farm. 
Luckily  I  really  am  frightfully  keen  about  horses.  I  didn't 
feel  at  sea  with  Mr.  Muskham.  It's  an  immense  relief  to 
have  a  chance  again;  and  there's  nothing  I'd  like  better." 

Sir  Lawrence  smiled — enthusiasm  was  always  pleasant. 

"You  must  know  my  son,"  he  said,  "he's  an  enthusiast 
too,  though  he  must  be  thirty-seven  by  now.  You'll  be  in 
his  constituency — no,  just  out  of  it.  You'll  be  in  Dorn- 


86  OVERTHERIVER 

ford's,  I  expect.  By  the  way,  you  know  my  niece  is  acting 
secretary  for  him?" 

Young  Groom  nodded. 

"I  don't  know,"  murmured  Sir  Lawrence,  "whether 
that'll  go  on  now  Corven's  over."  And  he  watched  the 
young  man's  expression. 

It  had  perceptibly  darkened.  "OhI  it  will.  She  won't  go 
back  to  Ceylon." 

It  was  said  with  frowning  suddenness,  and  Sir  Lawrence 
thought:  *This  is  where  I  weigh  myself.'  Young  Groom 
followed  him  to  the  weighing  machine,  as  if  he  did  not 
know  how  not  to.  He  was  very  red. 

"What  makes  you  sure  of  that?"  said  Sir  Lawrence, 
looking  up  from  the  historic  chair.  Young  Groom  went 
even  redder. 

"One  doesn't  come  away  just  to  go  back." 

"Or  one  does.  If  Life  were  a  racehorse  it'd  be  always 
up  before  the  stewards  for  running  in  and  out." 

"I  happen  to  know  Lady  Corven  won't,  sir." 

It  was  clear  to  Sir  Lawrence  that  he  had  lighted  on  a 
moment  when  feeling  gets  the  better  of  discretion.  So  the 
young  man  was  in  love  with  her!  Was  this  a  chance  to 
warn  him  off  the  course?  Or  was  it  more  graceful  to  take 
no  notice? 

"Just  eleven  stone,"  he  said;  "do  you  go  up  or  down, 
Mr.  Groom?" 

"I  keep  about  ten  twelve." 

Sir  Lawrence  scrutinised  his  lean  figure. 

"Well,  you  look  very  fit.  Extraordinary  what  a  shadow 
can  be  cast  on  life  by  the  abdomen.  However,  you  won't 
have  to  worry  till  you're  fifty." 

"Surely,  sir,  you've  never  had  any  bother  there?" 

"Not  to  speak  of;  but  I've  watched  it  darken  so  many 
doors.  And  now  I  must  be  getting  on.  Good-night  to 
youl" 

"Good-night,  sir.   I  really  am  awfully  grateful." 


OVERTHERIVER  87 

"Not  at  all.  My  cousin  Jack  doesn't  bet,  and  if  you  take 
my  advice,  you  won't  either." 

Young  Groom  said  heartily:   "I  certainly  shan't,  sir." 

They  shook  hands  and  Sir  Lawrence  resumed  his  pro- 
gress up  St.  James's  Street. 

'That  young  man,'  he  was  thinking,  'impresses  me 
favourably,  and  I  can't  think  why — he  appears  to  be  going 
to  be  a  nuisance.  What  I  ought  to  have  said  to  him  was: 
"Thou  shalt  not  covet  thy  neighbour's  wife."  But  God  so 
made  the  world  that  one  doesn't  say  what  one  ought!' 
The  young  were  very  interesting;  one  heard  of  them  being 
disrespectful  to  Age  and  all  that,  but  really  he  couldn't  see 
it.  They  seemed  to  him  fully  as  well-mannered  as  he  him- 
self had  been  at  their  age,  and  easier  to  talk  to.  One  never 
knew  what  they  were  thinking,  of  course;  but  that  might 
be  as  well.  After  all,  one  used  to  think  that  the  old — and  Sir 
Lawrence  winced  on  the  kerbstone  of  Piccadilly — were 
only  fit  to  be  measured  for  their  coffins.  'Tempora  mutan- 
tur  et  nos  mutamur  in  illis';  but  was  that  true?  No  more 
really  than  the  difference  in  the  pronunciation  of  Latin 
since  one's  youth.  Youth  would  always  be  Youth  and  Age 
would  be  Age,  with  the  same  real  divergence  and  distrust 
between  them,  and  the  same  queer  hankering  by  Age  to 
feel  as  Youth  was  feeling  and  think  as  Youth  was  thinking; 
the  same  pretence  that  it  wouldn't  so  feel  and  think  for 
the  world,  and,  at  the  back  of  all,  the  instinct  that,  really 
given  the  chance,  Age  wouldn't  have  its  life  over  again. 
Merciful — thatl  With  stealthy  quietude  Life,  as  it  wore  one 
out,  supplied  the  adjustment  of  a  suitable  lethargy.  At  each 
stage  of  existence  the  2est  for  living  was  tailored  to  what 
man  had  before  him  and  no  more.  That  fellow  Goethe  had 
attained  immortality  to  the  tunes  of  Gounod  by  fanning  a 
dying  spark  into  a  full-blown  flame.  'Rats!'  thought  Sir 
Lawrence:  'and  very  German  rats!  Would  I  choose  the 
sighing  and  the  sobbing,  the  fugitive  raptures  and  the 
lingering  starvations  in  front  of  that  young  man,  if  I  could? 


88  OVERTHERIVER 

I  would  not!  Sufficient  unto  the  old  buffer  is  the  bufferism 
thereof.  Is  that  policeman  never  going  to  stop  this  blamed 
traffic?'  No,  there  was  no  real  change!  Men  drove  cars  now 
to  the  same  tick  as  the  old  horse-bus  and  hansom-cab 
drivers  had  driven  their  slipping,  sliding,  clattering  gees. 
Young  men  and  women  experienced  the  same  legal  or 
illegal  urge  towards  each  other.  The  pavements  were 
different,  and  the  lingo  in  which  those  youthful  hankerings 
were  expressed.  But — Lord  Almighty! — the  rules  of  the 
road,  the  collisions  and  slips  and  general  miraculous 
avoidances,  the  triumphs,  mortifications,  and  fulfilments 
for  better  for  worse,  were  all  the  same  as  ever.  'No,'  he 
thought;  *the  Police  may  make  rules,  Divines  write  to  the 
papers,  Judges  express  themselves  as  they  like,  but  human 
nature  will  find  its  own  way  about  as  it  did  when  I  was 
cutting  my  wisdom  teeth.' 

The  policeman  reversed  his  sleeves,  and  Sir  Lawrence 
crossed,  pursuing  his  way  to  Berkeley  Square.  Here  was 
change  enough!  The  houses  of  the  great  were  going  fast. 
Piecemeal,  without  expressed  aim,  almost  shamefacedly,  in 
true  English  fashion,  London  was  being  rebuilt.  The 
dynastic  age  was  gone,  with  its  appendages,  feudalism,  and 
the  Church.  Even  wars  would  now  be  fought  for  peoples 
and  their  markets.  No  more  dynastic  or  religious  wars. 
Well,  that  was  something!  'We're  getting  more  like 
insects  daily/  thought  Sir  Lawrence.  And  how  interesting! 
Religion  was  nearly  dead  because  there  was  no  longer  real 
belief  in  future  life;  but  something  was  struggling  to  take 
its  place — service — social  service — the  ants'  creed,  the 
bees'  creed!  Communism  had  formulated  it  and  was 
whipping  it  into  the  people  from  the  top.  So  characteristic! 
They  were  always  whipping  something  into  somebody  in 
Russia.  The  quick  way,  no  doubt,  but  the  sure  way?  No! 
The  voluntary  system  remained  the  best,  because  when 
once  it  got  hold  it  lasted — only  it  was  so  darned  slow!  Yes, 
and  darned  ironical!  So  far  the  sense  of  social  service  was 


OVERTHERIVER  89 

almost  the  perquisite  of  the  older  families,  who  had 
somehow  got  hold  of  the  notion  that  they  must  do  some- 
thing useful  to  pay  for  their  position.  Now  that  they  were 
dying  out  would  the  sense  of  service  persist?  How  were 
the  'people'  to  pick  it  up?  'Well/  thought  Sir  Lawrence, 
'after  all,  there's  the  bus  conductor;  and  the  fellow  in  the 
shop,  who'll  take  infinite  trouble  to  match  the  colour  of 
your  socks;  and  the  woman  who'll  look  after  her  neigh- 
bour's baby,  or  collect  for  the  waifs  and  strays;  and  the 
motorist  who'll  stop  and  watch  you  tinkering  at  your  car; 
and  the  postman  who's  grateful  for  a  tip;  and  the  almost 
anybody  who'll  try  and  pull  you  out  of  a  pond  if  he  can 
really  see  you're  in  it.  What's  wanted  is  the  slogan: 
"Fresh  air  and  exercise  for  good  instincts."  One  might 
have  it  on  all  the  buses,  instead  of:  "Canon's  Colossal 
Crime,"  or  "Strange  Sweepstake  Swindle."  And  that 
reminds  me  to  ask  Dinny  what  she  knows  about  Clare  and 
that  young  man.' 

So  thinking,  he  paused  before  his  house  door,  and 
inserted  his  key  in  its  latch. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN  spite  of  Sir  Gerald  Corven's  assurance,  the  course  before 
a  husband  wishing  to  resume  the  society  of  his  wife  is  not 
noticeably  simple,  especially  if  he  has  but  a  week  wherein  to 
encompass  his  desire.  The  experience  of  that  evening  had 
made  Clare  wary.  On  leaving  the  Temple  at  lunch-time  the 
day  after,  a  Saturday,  she  took  train  for  Condaford,  where 
she  carefully  refrained  from  saying  that  she  had  sought 
asylum.  On  Sunday  morning  she  lay  long  in  bed,  with  the 
windows  wide  open,  watching  the  sky  beyond  the  tall 
denuded  elms.  The  sun  shone  in  upon  her,  the  air  was  mild 
and  alive  with  sounds  surprised  into  life,  the  twittering 
once  more  of  birds,  the  lowing  of  a  cow,  the  occasional 
caw  of  a  rook,  the  continual  cooing  of  the  fantails.  There 
was  but  little  poetry  in  Clare,  but  for  a  moment  to  her 
easeful  stretched-out  being  came  a  certain  perception  of  the 
symphony  which  is  this  world.  The  lacing  of  the  naked 
boughs  and  those  few  leaves  against  the  soft,  gold-bright, 
moving  sky;  that  rook  balancing  there;  the  green  and  fallow 
upland,  the  far  line  of  trees;  and  all  those  sounds,  and  the 
pure  unscented  air  on  her  face;  the  twittering  quietude  and 
perfect  freedom  of  each  separate  thing,  and  yet  the  long 
composure  of  design — all  this  for  a  moment  drew  her  out 
of  herself  into  a  glimpse  of  the  universal. 

The  vision  passed;  she  thought  instead  of  Thursday 
night,  and  Tony  Croom,  and  the  dirty  little  boy  outside  the 
restaurant  in  Soho,  who  had  said  in  such  endearing  tones: 
"Remember  the  poor  old  guy,  lady;  remember  the  poor 
old  guy."  If  Tony  had  seen  her  the  next  nightl  How 
irrelevant  was  event  to  feeling,  how  ignorant  were  even  the 
closest  of  each  other!  She  uttered  a  little  discomfited 
laugh.  Where  ignorance  was  bliss,  indeedl 

90 


OVER     THE     RIVER  9! 

The  village  church  bell  began  ringing  now.  Marvellous 
how  her  father  and  mother  continued  to  go  every  Sunday, 
hoping — she  supposed — for  the  best;  or  was  it  because  if 
they  didn't  the  village  wouldn't,  and  the  church  would  fall 
into  disuse,  or  at  least  behind  the  chapel?  It  was  nice  to  lie 
here  in  one's  own  old  room,  feel  safe,  and  warm,  and  idle, 
with  a  dog  on  one's  feet!  Till  next  Saturday  she  was  at  bay, 
like  a  chased  vixen  taking  advantage  of  every  cover;  and 
Clare  drew  taut  her  lips,  as  a  vixen  does  at  sight  of  hounds. 
Go  back  he  must — he  had  said — with  her  or  without. 
Well,  it  would  be  without! 

Her  sense  of  asylum  was  rudely  shaken  about  four 
o'clock,  when,  returning  from  a  walk  with  the  dogs,  she 
saw  a  car  outside  and  was  met  by  her  mother  in  the 
hall. 

"Jerry's  with  your  father." 

"Oh!" 

"Come  up  to  my  room,  dear." 

In  that  first-floor  room  adjoining  her  bedroom  Lady 
Charwell's  personality  had  always  more  scope  than  in  the 
rest  of  the  old,  tortuous,  worn-down  house,  so  full  of  relics 
and  the  past  tense.  This  room's  verbena-scented,  powder- 
blue  scheme  had  a  distinct  if  faded  elegance.  It  had  been 
designed;  the  rest  of  the  house  had  grown,  emerging  here 
and  there  into  small  oases  of  modernity,  but  for  the  most 
part  a  wilderness  strewn  with  the  debris  of  Time. 

Clare  turned  and  turned  a  china  figure,  in  front  of  the 
wood  fire.  She  had  not  foreseen  this  visit.  Now  were 
conjoined  the  forces  of  creed,  convention,  and  comfort,  and 
against  them  was  only  a  defence  that  it  was  hateful  to  lay 
bare.  She  waited  for  her  mother  to  speak. 

"You  see,  darling,  you  haven't  told  us  anything." 

But  how  tell  one  who  looked  and  spoke  like  that?  She 
flushed,  went  pale,  and  said:  "I  can  only  say  there's  a  beast 
in  him.  I  know  it  doesn't  show;  but  there  is,  Mother,  there 
is!" 


92  OVERTHERIVER 

Lady  Charwell,  too,  had  flushed.  It  did  not  suit  her, 
being  over  fifty. 

"Your  father  and  I  will  help  you  all  we  can,  dear;  only,  of 
course,  it  is  so  important  to  take  a  right  decision  now." 

"And  I,  having  made  a  wrong  one  already,  can  only  be 
trusted  to  make  another?  You've  got  to  take  my  word, 
Mother;  I  simply  can't  talk  about  it,  and  I  simply  won't  go 
back  with  him." 

Lady  Charwell  had  sat  down,  a  furrow  between  her  grey- 
blue  eyes  which  seemed  fixed  on  nothing.  She  turned  them 
on  her  daughter,  and  said,  hesitating: 

"You're  sure  it's  not  just  the  beast  that  is  in  nearly  all 
men?" 

Clare  laughed. 

"Oh!  no.  I'm  not  easily  upset." 

Lady  Charwell  sighed. 

"Don't  worry,  Mother  dear;  it'll  be  all  right  once  we've 
got  this  over.  Nothing  really  matters  nowadays." 

"So  they  say,  but  one  has  the  bad  habit  still  of  believing 
that  it  does." 

At  this  near  approach  to  irony  Clare  said  quickly: 

"It  matters  that  one  should  keep  one's  self-respect. 
Really,  with  him  I  couldn't." 

"We'll  say  no  more  then.  Your  father  will  want  to  see 
you.  You'd  better  take  your  things  off." 

Clare  kissed  her  and  went  out.  There  was  no  sound  from 
below,  and  she  went  on  up  to  her  room.  She  felt  her  will- 
power stiffening.  The  days  when  men  disposed  of  their 
women  folk  were  long  over,  and — whatever  Jerry  and  her 
father  were  concocting — she  would  not  budgel  When  the 
summons  came,  she  went  to  the  encounter,  blade-sharp, 
and  hard  as  stone. 

They  were  standing  in  the  General's  office-like  study, 
and  she  felt  at  once  that  they  were  in  agreement.  Nodding 
to  her  husband,  she  went  over  to  her  father. 

"Well?" 


OVERTHERIVER  93 

But  Corven  spoke  first. 

"I  leave  it  to  you,  sir." 

The  General's  lined  face  looked  mournful  and  irritated. 
He  braced  himself.  "We've  been  going  into  this,  Clare. 
Jerry  admits  that  you've  got  much  on  your  side,  but  he's 
given  me  his  word  that  he  won't  offend  you  again.  I  want 
to  appeal  to  you  to  try  and  see  his  point  of  view.  He  says,  I 
think  rightly,  that  it's  more  to  your  interest  even  than  to 
his.  The  old  ideas  about  marriage  may  have  gone,  but, 
after  all,  you  both  took  certain  vows — but  leaving  that 
aside " 

"Yes,"  said  Clare. 

The  General  twirled  his  little  moustache,  and  thrust  the 
other  hand  deep  into  his  pocket. 

"Well,  what  on  earth  is  going  to  happen  to  you  both? 
You  can't  have  a  divorce — there's  your  name,  and  his 
position,  and — after  only  eighteen  months.  What  are  you 
going  to  do?  Live  apart?  That's  not  fair  to  you,  or  to 
him." 

"Fairer  to  both  of  us  than  living  together  will  be." 

The  General  glanced  at  her  hardened  face.  "So  you  say 
now;  but  we've  both  of  us  had  more  experience  than 
you." 

"That  was  bound  to  be  said  sooner  or  later.  You  want 
me  to  go  back  with  him?" 

The  General  looked  acutely  unhappy. 

"You  know,  my  dear,  that  I  only  want  what's  best  for 
you." 

"And  Jerry  has  convinced  you  that  is  the  best.  Well, 
it's  the  worst.  I'm  not  going,  Dad,  and  there's  an  end  of  it." 

The  General  looked  at  her  face,  looked  at  the  face  of  his 
son-in-law,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  began  filling  his 
pipe. 

Jerry  Corven's  eyes,  which  had  been  passing  from  face  to 
face,  narrowed  and  came  to  rest  on  Clare's.  That  look 
lasted  a  long  time,  and  neither  flinched. 


94  OVERTHERIVER 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  at  last,  "I  will  make  other  arrange- 
ments. Good-bye,  sir;  good-bye,  Clarel"  And  turning  on 
his  heel,  he  went  out. 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  the  sound  of  his  car  crunch- 
ing away  on  the  drive  could  be  heard  distinctly.  The 
General,  smoking  glumly,  kept  his  glance  averted;  Clare 
went  to  the  window.  It  was  growing  dark  outside,  and 
now  that  the  crisis  was  over  she  felt  unstrung. 

"I  wish  to  God,"  said  her  father's  voice,  "that  I  could 
understand  this  business." 

Clare  did  not  move  from  the  window:  "Did  he  tell  you 
he'd  used  my  riding  whip  on  me?" 

"WhatI"  said  the  General. 

Clare  turned  round. 

"Yes." 

"Oajou?" 

"Yes.  That  was  not  my  real  reason,  but  it  put  the 
finishing  touch.  Sorry  to  hurt  you,  Dad!" 

"By  GodI" 

Clare  had  a  moment  of  illumination.  Concrete  factsl 
Give  a  man  a  fact! 

"The  ruffian!"  said  the  General:  "The  ruffian!  He  told 
me  he  spent  the  evening  with  you  the  other  day;  is  that 
true?" 

A  slow  flush  had  burned  up  in  her  cheeks. 

"He  practically  forced  himself  in." 

"The  ruffian!"  said  the  General  once  more. 

When  she  was  alone  again,  she  meditated  wryly  on  the 
sudden  difference  that  little  fact  about  the  whip  had  made 
in  her  father's  feelings.  He  had  taken  it  as  a  personal 
affront,  an  insult  to  his  own  flesh  and  blood.  She  felt  that 
he  could  have  stood  it  with  equanimity  of  someone  else's 
daughter;  she  remembered  that  he  had  even  sympathised 
with  her  brother's  flogging  of  the  muleteer,  which  had 
brought  such  a  peck  of  trouble  on  them  all.  How  little 
detached,  how  delightfully  personal,  people  werel  Feeling 


OVERTHERIVER  95 

and  criticising  in  terms  of  their  own  prejudices!  Well! 
She  was  over  the  worst  now,  for  her  people  were  on  her 
side,  and  she  would  make  certain  of  not  seeing  Jerry  alone 
again.  She  thought  of  the  long  look  he  had  given  her.  He 
was  a  good  loser,  because  for  him  the  game  was  never  at  an 
end.  Life  itself — not  each  item  of  life — absorbed  him.  He 
rode  Life,  took  a  toss,  got  up,  rode  on;  met  an  obstacle, 
rode  over  it,  rode  through  it,  took  the  scratches  as  all  in  the 
day's  work.  He  had  fascinated  her,  ridden  through  and 
over  her;  the  fascination  was  gone,  and  she  wondered  that 
it  had  ever  been.  What  was  he  going  to  do  now?  Well! 
One  thing  was  certain:  somehow,  he  would  cut  his  losses! 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ONE  who  gazes  at  the  Temple's  smooth  green  turf,  fine 
trees,  stone-silled  buildings,  and  pouter  pigeons,  feels 
dithyrambic,  till  on  him  intrudes  the  vision  oJt  countless 
bundles  of  papers  tied  round  with  pink  tape,  unending 
clerks  in  little  outer  chambers  sucking  thumbs  and  waiting 
for  solicitors,  calf-bound  tomes  stored  with  reports  of 
innumerable  cases  so  closely  argued  that  the  light-minded 
sigh  at  sight  of  them  and  think  of  the  Cafe  Royal.  Who 
shall  deny  that  the  Temple  harbours  the  human  mind  in 
excelsis,  the  human  body  in  chairs;  who  shall  gainsay  that 
the  human  spirit  is  taken  off  at  its  entrances  and  left  outside 
like  the  shoes  of  those  who  enter  a  mosque?  Not  even  to 
its  Grand  Nights  is  the  human  spirit  admitted,  for  the  legal 
mind  must  not  'slop  over/  and  warning  is  given  by  the 
word  'Decorations'  on  the  invitation  cards.  On  those  few 
autumn  mornings  when  the  sun  shines,  the  inhabitant  of 
the  Temple  who  faces  East  may  possibly  feel  in  his  midriff 
as  a  man  feels  on  a  hilltop,  or  after  hearing  a  Brahms 
symphony,  or  even  when  seeing  first  daffodils  in  spring;  if 
so,  he  will  hastily  remember  where  he  is,  and  turn  to: 
Collister  v.  Daverday:  Popdick  intervening. 

And  yet,  strangely,  Eustace  Dornford,  verging  on  middle 
age,  was  continually  being  visited,  whether  the  sun  shone 
or  not,  by  the  feeling  of  one  who  sits  on  a  low  wall  in  the 
first  spring  warmth,  seeing  life  as  a  Botticellian  figure 
advancing  towards  him  through  an  orchard  of  orange  trees 
and  spring  flowers.  At  less  expenditure  of  words,  he  was 
'in  love'  with  Dinny.  Each  morning  when  he  saw  Clare  he 
was  visited  by  a  longing  not  to  dictate  on  parliamentary 
subjects,  but  rather  to  lead  her  to  talk  about  her  sister. 
Self-controlled,  however,  and  with  a  sense  of  humour,  he 

96 


OVERTHERIVER  97 

bowed  to  his  professional  inhibitions,  merely  asking  Clare 
whether  she  and  her  sister  would  dine  with  him,  "on 
Saturday — here,  or  at  the  Cafe  Royal?" 

"Here  would  be  more  original." 

"Would  you  care  to  ask  a  man  to  make  a  fourth?" 

"But  won't  you,  Mr.  Dornford?" 

"You  might  like  someone  special." 

"Well,  there's  young  Tony  Groom,  who  was  on  the  boat 
with  me.  He's  a  nice  boy." 

"Good!   Saturday,  then.  And  you'll  ask  your  sister?" 

Clare  did  not  say:  "She's  probably  on  the  doorstep,"  for, 
as  a  fact,  she  was.  Every  evening  that  week  she  was  coming 
at  half-past  six  to  accompany  Clare  back  to  Melton  Mews. 
There  were  still  chances,  and  the  sisters  were  not  taking 
them. 

On  hearing  of  the  invitation  Dinny  said:  "When  I  left 
you  late  that  night  I  ran  into  Tony  Croom,  and  we  walked 
back  to  Mount  Street  together." 

"You  didn't  tell  him  about  Jerry's  visit  to  me?" 

"Of  course  notl" 

"It's  hard  on  him,  as  it  is.  He  really  is  a  nice  boy, 
Dinny." 

"So  I  saw.  And  I  wish  he  weren't  in  London." 

Clare  smiled.  "Well,  he  won't  be  for  long;  he's  to  take 
charge  of  some  Arab  mares  for  Mr.  Muskham  down  at 
Bablock  Hythe." 

"Jack  Muskham  lives  at  Royston." 

"The  mares  are  to  have  a  separate  establishment  in  a 
milder  climate." 

Dinny  roused  herself  from  memories  with  an  effort. 

"Well,  darling,  shall  we  strap-hang  on  the  Tube,  or  go  a 
bust  in  a  taxi?" 

"I  want  air.  Are  you  up  to  walking?" 

"Rather!  We'll  go  by  the  Embankment  and  the  Parks." 

They  walked  quickly,  for  it  was  cold.  Lamplit  and  star- 
covered,  that  broad  free  segment  of  the  Town  had  a 


98  OVERTHERIVER 

memorable  dark  beauty;  even  on  the  buildings,  their 
daylight  features  abolished,  was  stamped  a  certain  grandeur. 

Dinny  murmured:   "London  at  night  is  beautiful." 

"Yes,  you  go  to  bed  with  a  beauty  and  wake  up  with  a 
barmaid.  And,  what's  it  all  for?  A  clotted  mass  of  energy 
like  an  ant-heap." 

"  'So  fatiguin'/  as  Aunt  Em  would  say." 

"But  what  is  it  all  for,  Dinny?" 

"A  workshop  trying  to  turn  out  perfect  specimens;  a 
million  failures  to  each  success." 

"Is  that  worth  while?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Well,  what  is  there  to  believe  in?" 

"Character." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Character's  our  way  of  showing  the  desire  for  per- 
fection. Nursing  the  best  that's  in  one." 

"Hum!"  said  Clare:  "Who's  to  decide  what's  best 
within  one?" 

"You  have  me,  my  dear." 

"Well,  I'm  too  young  for  it,  anyway." 

Dinny  hooked  her  arm  within  her  sister's. 

"You're  older  than  I  am,  Clare." 

"No,  I've  had  more  experience  perhaps,  but  I  haven't 
communed  with  my  own  spirit  and  been  still.  I  feel  in  my 
bones  that  Jerry's  hanging  round  the  Mews." 

"Come  into  Mount  Street,  and  we'll  go  to  a  film." 

In  the  hall  Blore  handed  Dinny  a  note. 

"Sir  Gerald  Corven  called,  Miss,  and  left  this  for  you." 

Dinny  opened  it. 

"DEAR  DINNY, — 

"I'm  leaving  England  to-morrow  instead  of  Saturday. 
If  Clare  will  change  her  mind  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  take 
her.  If  not,  she  must  not  expect  me  to  be  long-suffering.  I 
have  left  a  note  to  this  effect  at  her  lodgings,  but  as  I  do  not 


OVERTHERIVER  99 

know  where  she  is,  I  wrote  to  you  also,  so  as  to  be  sure  that 
she  knows.  She  or  a  message  from  her  will  find  me  at  the 
Bristol  up  to  three  o'clock  to-morrow,  Thursday.  After 
that  'a  la  guerre  comme  a  la  guerre.' 

"With  many  regrets  that  things  are  so  criss-cross  and 
good  wishes  to  yourself, 
"I  am, 

"Very  sincerely  yours, 

"GERALD  CORVEN." 

Dinny  bit  her  lip. 

"Read  this!" 

Clare  read  the  note. 

"I  shan't  go,  and  he  can  do  what  he  likes." 

While  they  were  titivating  themselves  in  Dinny's  room, 
Lady  Mont  came  in. 

"Ah!"  she  said:  "Now  I  can  say  my  piece.  Your  Uncle 
has  seen  Jerry  Corven  again.  What  are  you  goin'  to  do 
about  him,  Clare?" 

As  Clare  swivelled  round  from  the  mirror,  the  light  fell 
full  on  cheeks  and  lips  whose  toilet  she  had  not  quite 
completed. 

"I'm  never  going  back  to  him,  Aunt  Em." 

"May  I  sit  on  your  bed,  Dinny?  'Never'  is  a  long  time, 
and — er — that  Mr.  Craven.  I'm  sure  you  have  principles, 
Clare,  but  you're  too  pretty." 

Clare  put  down  her  lipstick. 

"Sweet  of  you,  Aunt  Em;  but  really  I  know  what  I'm 
about." 

"So  comfortin'l  When  I  say  that  myself,  I'm  sure  to 
make  a #*$?." 

"If  Clare  promises,  she'll  perform,  Auntie." 

Lady  Mont  sighed.  "I  promised  my  father  not  to  marry 
for  a  year.  Seven  months — and  then  your  uncle.  It's 
always  somebody." 

Clare  raised  her  hands  to  the  little  curls  on  her  neck. 


IOO  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"I'll  promise  not  to  'kick  over'  for  a  year.  1  ought  to 
know  my  own  mind  by  then;  if  I  don't,  I  can't  have  got 
one." 

Lady  Mont  smoothed  the  eiderdown. 

"Cross  your  heart." 

"I  don't  think  you  should,"  said  Dinny  quickly. 

Clare  crossed  her  ringers  on  her  breast. 

"I'll  cross  where  it  ought  to  be." 

Lady  Mont  rose. 

"She  ought  to  stay  here  to-night,  don't  you  think, 
Dinny?" 

"Yes." 

"I'll  tell  them,  then.  Sea-green  is  your  colour,  Dinny. 
Lawrence  says  I  haven't  one." 

"Black  and  white,  dear." 

"Magpies  and  the  Duke  of  Portland.  I  haven't  been  to 
Ascot  since  Michael  went  to  Winchester — savin*  our 
pennies.  Hilary  and  May  are  comin'  to  dinner.  They 
won't  be  dressed." 

"Oh!"  said  Clare  suddenly:  "Does  Uncle  Hilary  know 
about  me?" 

"Broad-minded,"  murmured  Lady  Mont.  "I  can't  help 
bein'  sorry,  you  know." 

Clare  stood  up. 

"Believe  me,  Aunt  Em,  Jerry's  not  the  sort  of  man 
who'll  let  it  hurt  him  long." 

"Stand  back  to  back,  you  two;  I  thought  so — Dinny  by 
an  inch." 

"I'm  five  foot  five,"  said  Ckre,  "without  shoes." 

"Very  well.  When  you're  tidy,  come  down." 

So  saying,  Lady  Mont  swayed  to  the  door,  said  to 
herself:  "Solomon's  seal — remind  Boswell,"  and  went  out. 

Dinny  returned  to  the  fire,  and  resumed  her  stare  at  the 
flames. 

Clare's  voice,  close  behind  her,  said:  "I  feel  inclined 
to  sing,  Dinny.  A  whole  year's  holiday  from  everything. 


OVER     THE      RIVER  IOI 

I'm  glad  Aunt  Em  made  me  promise.  But  isn't  she  a 
scream?" 

"Emphatically  not.  She's  the  wisest  member  of  our 
family.  Take  life  seriously  and  you're  nowhere.  She 
doesn't.  She  may  want  to,  but  she  can't." 

"But  she  hasn't  any  real  worries." 

"Only  a  husband,  three  children,  several  grandchildren, 
two  households,  three  dogs,  some  congenital  gardeners, 
not  enough  money,  and  two  passions — one  for  getting 
other  people  married,  and  one  for  French  tapestry;  besides 
trying  hard  not  to  get  fat  on  it  all." 

"Oh!  she's  a  duck  all  right.  What  d'you  advise  about 
these  'tendrils/  Dinny?  They're  an  awful  plague.  Shall  I 
shingle  again?" 

"Let  them  grow  at  present,  we  don't  know  what's 
coming;  it  might  be  ringlets." 

"Do  you  believe  that  women  get  themselves  up  to  please 
men?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"To  excite  and  annoy  each  other,  then?" 

"Fashion  mostly;  women  are  sheep  about  appearance." 

"And  morals?" 

"Have  we  any?  Man-made,  anyway.  By  nature  we've 
only  got  feelings." 

"I've  none  now." 

"Sure?" 

Clare  laughed.  "OhI  well,  in  hand,  anyhow."  She  put  on 
her  dress,  and  Dinny  took  her  place  at  the  mirror.  .  .  . 

The  slum  parson  does  not  dine  out  to  observe  human 
nature.  He  eats.  Hilary  Charwell,  having  spent  the  best 
part  of  his  day,  including  meal-times,  listening  to  the 
difficulties  of  parishioners  who  had  laid  up  no  store  for  the 
morrow  because  they  had  never  had  store  enough  for  to- 
day, absorbed  the  good  food  set  before  him  with  per- 
ceptible enjoyment.  If  he  was  aware  that  the  young 
woman  whom  he  had  married  to  Jerry  Corven  had  burst 


IO2  OVER     THE     RIVER 

her  bonds,  he  gave  no  sign  of  it.  Though  seated  next  to 
her,  he  never  once  alluded  to  her  domestic  existence, 
conversing  freely  on  the  election,  French  art,  the  timber 
wolves  at  Whipsnade  Zoo,  and  a  new  system  of  building 
schools  with  roofs  that  could  be  used  or  not  as  the  weather 
dictated.  Over  his  face,  long,  wrinkled,  purposeful,  and 
shrewdly  kind,  flitted  an  occasional  smile,  as  if  he  were 
summing  something  up;  but  he  gave  no  indication  of  what 
that  something  was,  except  that  he  looked  across  at  Dinny, 
as  though  saying:  "You  and  I  are  going  to  have  a  talk 
presently." 

No  such  talk  occurred,  for  he  was  summoned  by 
telephone  to  a  death-bed  before  he  had  finished  his  glass  of 
port.  Mrs.  Hilary  went  with  him. 

The  two  sisters  settled  down  to  bridge  with  their  Uncle 
and  Aunt,  and  at  eleven  o'clock  went  up  to  bed. 

"Armistice  day,"  said  Clare,  turning  into  her  bedroom. 
"Did  you  realise?" 

"Yes." 

"I  was  in  a  bus  at  eleven  o'clock.  I  noticed  two  or  three 
people  looking  funny.  How  can  one  be  expected  to  feel 
anything?  I  was  only  ten  when  the  war  stopped." 

"I  remember  the  Armistice,"  said  Dinny,  "because 
Mother  cried.  Uncle  Hilary  was  with  us  at  Condaford.  He 
preached  on:  'They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait.'  " 

"Who  serves  except  for  what  he  can  get  from  it?" 

"Lots  of  people  do  hard  jobs  all  their  lives  for  mighty 
little  return." 

"Well,  yes." 

"Why  do  they?" 

"Dinny,  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  you  might  end  up  re- 
ligious. Unless  you  marry,  you  will." 

"  'Get  thee  to  a  nunnery,  gol*  " 

"Seriously,  ducky,  I  wish  I  could  see  more  of  'the  old 
Eve*  in  you.  In  my  opinion  you  ought  to  be  a  mother." 

"When  doctors  find  a  way  without  preliminaries." 


OVER     THE     RIVER  103 

"You're  wasting  yourself,  my  dear.  At  any  moment  that 
you  liked  to  crook  your  little  finger,  old  man  Dornfbrd 
would  fall  on  his  knees  to  you.  Don't  you  like  him?" 

"As  nice  a  man  as  I've  seen  for  a  long  time." 

"  'Murmured  she  coldly,  turning  towards  the  door.' 
Give  me  a  kiss." 

"Darling,"  said  Dinny,  "I  do  hope  things  are  going 
to  be  all  right.  I  shan't  pray  for  you,  in  spite  of  my  look 
of  decline;  but  I'll  dream  that  your  ship  comes  home." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

YOUNG  GROOM'S  second  visit  to  England's  Past  at  Drury 
Lane  was  the  first  visit  of  the  other  three  members  of 
Dornford's  little  dinner  party,  and  by  some  fatality,  not 
unconnected  with  him  who  took  the  tickets,  they  were 
seated  two  by  two;  young  Groom  with  Clare  in  the  middle 
of  the  tenth  row,  Dornford  and  Dinny  in  returned  stalls  at 
the  end  of  the  third.  .  .  . 

"Penny  for  your  thoughts,  Miss  Cherrell?" 
"I  was  thinking  how  the  English  face  has  changed  since 
1900." 

"It's  the  hair.  Faces  in  pictures  a  hundred  to  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years  ago  are  much  more  like  ours." 

"Drooping  moustaches  and  chignons  do  hide  ex- 
pression, but  was  there  the  expression?" 

"You  don't  think  the  Victorians  had  as  much  character?" 
"Probably  more,  but  surely  they  suppressed  it;  even  in 
their  dresses,  always  more  stuff  than  was  needed;  frock- 
coats,  high  collars,  cravats,  bustles,  button  boots." 
"The  leg  was  on  their  nerves,  but  the  neck  wasn't." 
"I  give  you  the  women's   necks.    But  look  at  their 
furniture:     tassels,     fringes,     antimacassars,     chandeliers, 
enormous  sideboards.    They  did  play  hide-and-seek  with 
the  soul,  Mr.  Dornford." 

"And  every  now  and  then  it  popped  out,  like  little 
Edward  after  unclothing  himself  under  his  mother's  dining- 
table  at  Windsor." 

"He  never  did  anything  quite  so  perfect  again." 
"I  don't  know.    He  was  another  Restoration  in  a  mild 
way.  Big  opening  of  floodgates  under  him."  .  .  . 

"He  has  sailed,  hasn't  he,  Clare?" 

104 


OVERTHERIVER  105 

"Yes,  he's  sailed,  all  right.  Look  at  Dornfordl  He's 
fallen  for  Dinny  completely.  I  wish  she'd  take  to  him." 

"Why  shouldn't  she?" 

"My  dear  young  man,  Dinny's  been  in  very  deep  waters. 
She's  in  them  even  now." 

"I  don't  know  anyone  I'd  like  better  for  a  sister-in-law." 

"Don't  you  wish  you  may  get  her?" 

"God!  YesI  Don't  II" 

"What  do  you  think  of  Dornford,  Tony?" 

"Awfully  decent,  not  a  bit  dry." 

"If  he  were  a  doctor  he'd  have  a  wonderful  bedside 
manner.  He's  a  Catholic." 

"Wasn't  that  against  him  in  the  election?" 

"It  would  have  been,  but  his  opponent  was  an  atheist,  so 
they  cried  quits." 

"Terrible  humbug,  politics." 

"But  rather  fun." 

"Still,  Dornford  won  that  Bar  point-to-point — he  must 
have  guts." 

"Lots.  I  should  say  he'd  face  anything  in  his  quiet  way. 
I'm  quite  fond  of  him." 

"Ohl" 

"No  intention  to  incite  you,  Tony." 

"This  is  like  being  on  board  ship,  sitting  side  by  side, 
and — stymied.  Come  out  for  a  cigarette." 

"People  are  coming  back.  Prepare  yourself  to  point  me 
the  moral  of  the  next  act.  At  present  I  don't  see  any." 

"Wait!"  .  .  . 

Dinny  drew  in  her  breath. 

"That's    terrible.     I    can    just   remember   the    Tttanic. 
Awful,  the  waste  in  the  world!" 
"You're  right." 

"Waste  of  life,  and  waste  of  love." 
"Have you  come  up  against  much  waste?" 
"Yes." 


106  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"You  don't  care  to  talk  about  it?" 

"No." 

"I  don't  believe  that  your  sister's  going  to  be  wasted. 
She's  too  vivid." 

"Yes,  but  her  head's  in  chancery." 

"She'll  duck  from  under." 

"I  can't  bear  to  think  of  her  life  being  spoiled.  Isn't 
there  some  legal  dodge,  Mr.  Dornford;  without  publicity,  I 
mean?" 

"If  he  would  give  cause,  there  need  be  very  little  of 
that." 

"He  won't.  He's  feeling  vindictive." 

"I  see.  Then  I'm  afraid  there's  nothing  for  it  but  to 
wait.  These  things  generally  disentangle  themselves. 
Catholics  are  not  supposed  to  believe  in  divorce.  But  if 
you  feel  this  is  a  case  for  one " 

"Clare's  only  twenty-four.  She  can't  live  alone  the  rest 
of  her  life." 

"Were you  thinking  of  doing  that?" 

"I!  That's  different." 

"Yes,  you're  very  unlike,  but  to  have  you  wasted  would 
be  far  worse.  Just  as  much  worse  as  wasting  a  lovely  day  in 
winter  is  than  wasting  one  in  summer." 

"The  curtain's  going  up."  .  .  . 

"I  wonder,"  muttered  Clare:  "It  didn't  look  to  me  as  if 
their  love  would  have  lasted  long.  They  were  eating  each 
other  like  sugar." 

"My  God,  if  you  and  I  on  that  boat  had  been " 

"You're  very  young,  Tony." 

"Two  years  older  than  you." 

"And  about  r en  years  younger." 

"Don't  you  really  believe  in  love  lasting,  Clare?" 

"Not  passion.  And  after  that  generally  the  deluge.  Only 
with  those  two  on  the  Titanic  it  came  too  soon.  A  cold  sea! 
Ugh!" 


OVER     THE     RIVER  1 07 

"Let  me  pull  your  cloak  up." 

"I  don't  believe  I  like  this  show  too  frightfully,  Tony. 
It  digs  into  you,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  dug  into." 

"I  liked  it  better  the  first  time,  certainly." 

"Thank  youl" 

"It's  being  close  to  you,  and  not  close  enough.  But  the 
war  part  of  the  play's  the  best." 

"The  whole  thing  makes  me  feel  I  don't  want  to  be 
alive." 

"That's  'the  satire.'  " 

"One  half  of  him  is  mocking  the  other.  It  gives  me  the 
fidgets.  Too  like  oneself." 

"I  wish  we'd  gone  to  a  movie,  I  could  have  held  your 
hand." 

"Dornford's  looking  at  Dinny  as  if  she  were  the  Madonna 
of  the  future  that  he  wanted  to  make  a  Madonna  of  the 
past." 

"So  he  does,  you  say." 

"He  really  has  a  nice  face.  I  wonder  what  he'll  think  of 
the  war  part.  'Weigh-hey!  Up  she  rises!'  "... 

Dinny  sat  with  closed  eyes,  acutely  feeling  the  remains 
of  moisture  on  her  cheeks. 

"But  she  never  would  have  done  that,"  she  said,  huskily, 
"not  waved  a  flag  and  cheered.  Neverl  She  might  have 
mixed  in  the  crowd,  but  never  that!" 

"No,  that's  a  stage  touch.  Pityl  But  a  jolly  good  act. 
Really  good!" 

"Those  poor  gay  raddled  singing  girls,  getting  more  and 
more  wretched  and  raddled,  and  that  'Tipperary*  whistling! 
The  war  must  have  been  awful!" 

"One  got  sort  of  exalted." 

"Did  that  feeling  last?" 

"In  a  way.  Does  that  seem  rather  horrible  to  you?" 

"I  never  can  judge  what  people  ought  to  feel.  I've  heard 
my  brother  say  something  of  the  kind." 


108  OVERTHER1VER 

"It  wasn't  the  'Into  Battle*  feeling  either — Fm  not  the 
fighting  man.  It's  a  cliche  to  say  it  was  the  biggest  thing 
that  will  ever  be  in  one's  life." 

"You  still  feel  that?" 

"It  has  been  up  to  now.  But !  I  must  tell  you  while 

I've  a  chance — I'm  in  love  with  you,  Dinny.  I  know 
nothing  about  you,  you  know  nothing  about  me.  That 
doesn't  make  any  difference.  I  fell  in  love  with  you  at 
once;  it's  been  getting  deeper  ever  since.  I  don't  expect 
you  to  say  anything,  but  you  might  think  about  it  now 
and  then.  .  .  ." 

Clare  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Did  people  really  go  on  like  that  at  the  Armistice? 
Tony!  Did  people ?" 

"What?" 

"Really  go  on  like  that?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Where  were  you?" 

"At  Wellington,  my  first  term.  My  father  was  killed  in 
the  war." 

"Ohl  I  suppose  mine  might  have  been,  and  my  brother. 
But  even  then!  Dinny  says  my  mother  cried  when  the 
Armistice  came." 

"So  did  mine,  I  believe." 

"The  bit  I  liked  best  was  that  between  the  son  and  the 
girl.  But  the  whole  thing  makes  you  feel  too  much.  Take 
me  out,  I  want  a  cigarette.  No,  we'd  better  not.  One 
always  meets  people." 

"Damn!" 

"Coming  here  with  you  was  the  limit.  I've  promised 
solemnly  not  to  give  offence  for  a  whole  year.  Oh!  cheer 
up!  You'll  see  lots  of  me.  .  .  ." 

;'  'Greatness,  and  dignity,  and  peace,' "  murmured  Dinny, 
standing  up,  "and  the  greatest  of  these  is  'dignity.'  " 


OVER     THE     RIVER  109 

"The  hardest  to  come  by,  anyway." 

"That  girl  singing  in  the  night  club,  and  the  jazzed  skyl 
Thank  you  awfully,  Mr.  Dornford.  I  shan't  forget  this 
play  easily." 

"Nor  what  I  said  to  you?" 

"It  was  very  sweet  of  you,  but  the  aloe  only  blooms  once 
in  a  hundred  years." 

"I  can  wait.  It's  been  a  wonderful  evening  for  me." 

"Those  two!" 

"We'll  pick  them  up  in  the  hall." 

"Do  you  think  England  ever  had  greatness  and  dignity 
and  peace?" 

"No." 

"But  'There's  a  green  hill  far  away,  without  a  city  wall.' 
Thank  you — I've  had  this  cloak  three  years." 

"Charming  it  isl" 

"I  suppose  most  of  these  people  will  go  on  to  night 
clubs  now." 

"Not  five  per  cent." 

"I  should  like  a  sniff  of  home  air  to-night,  and  a  long 
look  at  the  stars.  .  .  ." 

Clare  turned  her  head. 

"Don't,  Tonyl" 

"How  then?" 

"You've  been  with  me  all  the  evening." 

"If  only  I  could  take  you  homel" 

"You  can't,  my  dear.  Squeeze  my  little  ringer,  and  pull 
yourself  together." 

"Clare!" 

"Look!  They're  just  in  front — now  vanish!  Get  a  good 
long  drink  at  the  Cub  and  dream  of  horses.  There!  Was 
that  close  enough?  Good-night,  dear  Tony!" 

"God!  Good-night!" 


CHAPTER  XV 

TIME  has  been  compared  with  a  stream,  but  it  differs — you 
cannot  cross  it,  grey  and  even-flowing,  wide  as  the  world 
itself,  having  neither  ford  nor  bridge;  and  though,  accord- 
ing to  philosophers,  it  may  flow  both  up  and  down,  the 
calendar  as  yet  follows  it  but  one  way. 

November,  then,  became  December,  but  December  did 
not  become  November.  Except  for  a  cold  snap  or  two 
the  weather  remained  mild.  Unemployment  decreased; 
the  adverse  balance  of  trade  increased;  seven  foxes  escaped 
for  every  one  killed;  the  papers  fluttered  from  the  storms 
in  their  tea-cups;  a  great  deal  of  income  tax  was  paid;  still 
more  was  not;  the  question:  "Why  has  prosperity  gone 
to  pot?"  continued  to  bewilder  every  mind;  the  pound  went 
up,  the  pound  went  down.  In  short,  time  flowed,  but  the 
conundrum  of  existence  remained  unsolved. 

At  Condaford  the  bakery  scheme  was  dropped.  Every 
penny  that  could  be  raised  was  to  be  put  into  pigs,  poultry 
and  potatoes.  Sir  Lawrence  and  Michael  were  now  deep 
in  the  'Three  P.  Plan/  and  Dinny  had  become  infected. 
She  and  the  General  spent  all  their  days  preparing  for  the 
millennium  which  would  follow  its  adoption.  Eustace 
Dornford  had  expressed  his  adherence  to  the  proposition. 
Figures  had  been  prepared  to  show  that  in  ten  years  one 
hundred  millions  a  year  could  be  knocked  off  Britain's 
purchasing  bill  by  graduated  prohibition  of  the  import  of 
these  three  articles  of  food,  without  increasing  the  cost  of 
living.  With  a  little  organisation,  a  fractional  change  in  the 
nature  of  the  Briton,  and  the  increase  of  wheat  offals,  the 
thing  was  as  good  as  done.  In  the  meantime,  the  General 
borrowed  slightly  on  his  life  assurance  policy  and  paid 
his  taxes. 


OVERTHERIVER  III 

The  new  Member,  visiting  his  constituency,  spent 
Christmas  at  Condaford,  talking  almost  exclusively  of  pigs, 
instinct  telling  him  that  they  were  just  then  the  surest  line 
of  approach  to*  Dinny's  heart.  Clare,  too,  spent  Christmas 
at  home.  How,  apart  from  secretarial  duties,  she  had  spent 
the  intervening  time,  was  tacitly  assumed.  No  letter  had 
come  from  Jerry  Corven,  but  it  was  known  from  the 
papers  that  he  was  back  in  Ceylon.  During  the  days 
between  Christmas  and  the  New  Year  the  habitable  part 
of  the  old  house  was  full:  Hilary,  his  wife,  and  their 
daughter  Monica;  Adrian  and  Diana,  with  Sheila  and 
Ronald,  now  recovered  from  the  measles — no  such  family 
gathering  had  been  held  for  years.  Even  Sir  Lionel  and 
Lady  Alison  drove  down  for  lunch  on  New  Year's  Eve. 
With  such  an  overwhelming  Conservative  majority  it  was 
felt  that  1932  would  be  important.  Dinny  was  run  off  her 
legs.  She  gave  no  sign  of  it,  but  had  less  an  air  of  living 
in  the  past.  So  much  was  she  the  party's  life  and  soul  that 
no  one  could  have  told  she  had  any  of  her  own.  Dornford 
gazed  at  her  in  speculation.  What  was  behind  that  untiring 
cheerful  selflessness?  He  went  so  far  as  to  ask  of  Adrian, 
who  seemed  to  be  her  favourite. 

"This  house  wouldn't  work  without  your  niece,  Mr. 
Cherrell." 

"It  wouldn't.   Dinny's  a  wonder." 

"Doesn't  she  ever  think  of  herself?" 

Adrian  looked  at  him  sideways.  The  pale-brown,  rather 
hollow-cheeked  face,  with  its  dark  hair,  and  hazel  eyes,  was 
sympathetic;  for  a  lawyer  and  a  politician,  he  looked 
sensitive.  Inclined,  however,  to  a  sheepdog  attitude  where 
Dinny  was  concerned,  he  answered  with  caution: 

"Why  no,  no  more  than  reason;  indeed,  not  so  much." 

"She  looks  to  me  sometimes  as  if  she'd  been  through 
something  pretty  bad." 

Adrian  shrugged.   "She's  twenty-seven." 

"Would  you  mind  awfully  telling  me  what  it  was?  This 


112  OVER     THE     RIVER 

isn't  curiosity.  I'm — well,  I'm  in  love  with  her,  and 
terrified  of  butting  in  and  hurting  her  through  ignorance." 

Adrian  took  a  long  gurgling  pull  at  his  pipe. 

"If  you're  in  dead  earnest " 

"Absolutely  dead  earnest." 

"It  might  save  her  a  pang  or  two.  She  was  terribly  in 
love,  the  year  before  last,  and  it  came  to  a  tragic  end." 

"Death?" 

"No.  I  can't  tell  you  the  exact  story,  but  the  man  had 
done  something  that  placed  him,  in  a  sense — or  at  all 
events  he  thought  so — outside  the  pale;  and  he  put  an 
end  to  their  engagement  rather  than  involve  Dinny,  and 
went  off  to  the  Far  East.  It  was  a  complete  cut.  Dinny 
has  never  spoken  of  it  since,  but  I'm  afraid  she'll  never 
forget." 

"I  see.  Thank  you  very  much.  You've  done  me  a  great 
service." 

"Sorry  if  it's  hurt,"  murmured  Adrian;  "but  better, 
perhaps,  to  have  one's  eyes  open." 

"Much." 

Resuming  the  tune  on  his  pipe,  Adrian  stole  several 
gknces  at  his  silent  neighbour.  That  averted  face  wore  an 
expression  not  exactly  dashed  or  sad,  but  as  if  contending 
deeply  with  the  future.  'He's  the  nearest  approach,'  he 
thought,  'to  what  I  should  like  for  her — sensitive,  quiet, 
and  plucky.  But  things  are  always  so  damnably  perverse!' 

"She's  very  different  from  her  sister,"  he  said  at  last. 

Dornford  smiled. 

"Ancient  and  modern." 

"Clare's  a  pretty  creature,  though." 

"Oh,  yes,  and  lots  of  qualities." 

"They've  both  got  grit.   How  does  she  do  her  work?" 

"Very  well;  quick  in  the  uptak',  good  memory,  heaps  of 
s avoir-] aire" 

"Pity  she's  in  such  a  position.  I  don't  know  why  things 
went  wrong,  and  I  don't  see  how  they  can  come  right." 


OVERTHERIVER  113 

"I've  never  met  Corven." 

"Quite  nice  to  meet;  but,  by  the  look  of  him,  a  streak 
of  cruelty." 

"Dinny  says  he's  vindictive." 

Adrian  nodded.  "I  should  think  so.  And  that's  bad 
when  it  comes  to  divorce.  But  I  hope  it  won't — always  a 
dirty  business,  and  probably  the  wrong  person  tarred.  I 
don't  remember  a  divorce  in  our  family." 

"Nor  in  mine,  but  we're  Catholics." 

"Judging  by  your  experience  in  the  Courts,  should  you 
say  English  morality  is  going  downhill?" 

"No.   On  the  upgrade,  if  anything." 

"But  surely  the  standard  is  slacker?" 

"People  are  franker,  not  quite  the  same  thing." 

"You  lawyers  and  judges,  at  all  events,'  said  Adrian, 
"are  exceptionally  moral  men." 

"Oh!   Where  did  you  get  that  from?" 

"The  papers." 

Dornford  laughed. 

"Well!"  said  Adrian,  rising.  "Let's  have  a  game  of 
billiards.  .  .  ." 

On  the  Monday  after  New  Year's  Day  the  party  broke 
up.  In  the  afternoon  Dinny  lay  down  on  her  bed  and  went 
to  sleep.  The  grey  light  failed  and  darkness  filled  her 
room.  She  dreamed  she  was  on  the  bank  of  a  river. 
Wilfrid  was  holding  her  hand,  pointing  to  the  far  side, 
and  saying:  "  'One  more  river,  one  more  river  to  cross!' ' 
Hand  in  hand  they  went  down  the  bank.  In  the  water 
all  became  darkl  She  lost  touch  of  his  hand  and  cried  out 
in  terror.  Losing  her  foothold,  she  drifted,  reaching  her 
hands  this  way  and  that,  and  his  voice,  further  and  further 
away,  "  'One  more  river — one  more  river,'  "  died  to  a 
sigh.  She  awoke  agonised.  Through  the  window  opposite 
was  the  dark  sky,  the  elm  tree  brushing  at  the  stars — no 
sound,  no  scent,  no  colour.  And  she  lay  quite  still, 


114  OVER     THE     RIVER 

drawing  deep  breaths  to  get  the  better  of  her  anguish.  It 
was  long  since  she  had  felt  Wilfrid  so  close  to  her,  or  been 
so  poignantly  bereaved  once  more. 

She  got  up,  and,  having  bathed  her  face  in  cold  water, 
stood  at  her  window  looking  into  the  starry  dark,  still 
shuddering  a  little  from  the  vivid  misery  of  her  dream. 
'One  more  river!' 

Someone  tapped  on  the  door. 

"Yes?" 

"It's  old  Mrs.  Purdy,  Miss  Dinny.  They  say  she's  going 
fast.  The  doctor's  there,  but " 

"Betty!  Does  Mother  know?" 

"Yes,  miss,  she's  going  over." 

"No!  I'll  go.  Stop  her,  Annie!" 

"Yes,  miss.  It's  a  seizure — nurse  sent  over  to  say  they 
can't  do  nothing.  Will  you  have  the  light  on,  miss?" 

"Yes,  turn  it  up." 

Thank  God  they  had  managed  to  put  the  electric  light 
in,  at  last! 

"Get  me  this  little  flask  filled  with  brandy,  and  put  my 
rubber  boots  in  the  hall.  I  shan't  be  two  minutes  coming 
down." 

"Yes,  miss." 

Slipping  on  a  jersey  and  cap,  and  catching  up  her  mole- 
skin fur  coat,  she  ran  downstairs,  stopping  for  a  second 
at  her  mother's  door  to  say  she  was  going.  Putting  on 
her  rubber  boots  in  the  hall,  and  taking  the  filled  flask, 
she  went  out.  It  was  groping  dark,  but  not  cold  for 
January.  The  lane  was  slithery  under  foot,  and,  since  she 
had  no  torch,  the  half  mile  took  her  nearly  a  quarter  of 
an  hour.  The  doctor's  car,  with  its  lights  on,  stood  outside 
the  cottage.  Unlatching  the  door,  Dinny  went  into  the 
ground-floor  room.  There  was  a  fire  burning,  and  one 
candle  alight,  but  the  crowded  homely  space  was  deserted 
by  all  but  the  goldfinch  in  its  large  cage.  She  opened  the 
thin  door  that  shut  the  stairs  off,  and  went  up.  Pushing 


OVERTHERIVER  IIJ 

the  feeble  top  door  gently,  she  stood  looking.  A  lamp 
was  burning  on  the  window-sill  opposite,  and  the  low, 
sagging-ceilinged  room  had  a  shadowy  radiance.  At  the 
foot  of  the  double  bed  were  the  doctor  and  village  nurse, 
talking  in  low  tones.  In  the  window  corner  Dinny  could 
see  the  little  old  husband  crouched  on  a  chair,  with  his 
hands  on  his  knees  and  his  crumpled,  cherry-cheeked  face 
trembling  and  jerking  slightly.  The  old  cottage  woman  lay 
humped  in  the  old  bed;  her  face  was  waxen,  and  seemed 
to  Dinny  to  have  lost  already  almost  all  its  wrinkles.  A 
faint  stertorous  breathing  came  from  her  lips.  The  eyes 
were  not  quite  closed,  but  surely  were  not  seeing. 

The  doctor  crossed  to  the  door. 

"Opiate,"  he  said.  "I  don't  think  she'll  recover  con- 
sciousness. Just  as  well  for  the  poor  old  soul!  If  she 
does,  nurse  has  another  to  give  her  at  once.  There's 
nothing  to  be  done  but  ease  the  end." 

"I  shall  stay,"  said  Dinny. 

The  doctor  took  her  hand. 

"Happy  release.   Don't  fret,  my  dear." 

"Poor  old  Benjyl"  whispered  Dinny. 

The  doctor  pressed  her  hand,  and  went  down  the  stairs. 

Dinny  entered  the  room;  the  air  was  close,  and  she  left 
the  door  ajar. 

"I'll  watch,  nurse,  if  you  want  to  get  anything." 

The  nurse  nodded.  In  her  neat  dark  blue  dress  and 
bonnet  she  looked,  but  for  a  little  frown,  almost  inhumanly 
impassive.  They  stood  side  by  side  gazing  at  the  old 
woman's  waxen  face. 

"Not  many  like  her,"  whispered  the  nurse  suddenly. 
"I'm  going  to  get  some  things  I'll  want — back  under  the 
half-hour.  Sit  down,  Miss  Cherrell,  don't  tire  yourself." 

When  she  had  gone  Dinny  turned  and  went  up  to  the 
old  husband  in  the  corner. 

"Benjy." 

He  wobbled  his  pippin  head,  rubbing  his  hands  on  his 


Il6  OVER     THE     RIVER 

knees.  Words  of  comfort  refused  to  come  to  Dinny.  Just 
touching  his  shoulder,  she  went  back  to  the  bed  and  drew 
up  the  one  hard  wooden  chair.  She  sat,  silently  watching 
old  Betty's  lips,  whence  issued  that  faintly  stertorous 
breathing.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  spirit  of  a  far-off  age 
were  dying.  There  might  be  other  people  as  old  still  alive 
in  the  village,  but  they  weren't  like  old  Betty,  with  her 
simple  sense  and  thrifty  order,  her  Bible-reading  and  love 
of  gentry,  her  pride  in  her  eighty-three  years,  in  the  teeth 
that  she  ought  long  since  to  have  parted  from,  and  in  her 
record;  with  her  shrewdness  and  her  way  of  treating  her 
old  husband  as  if  he  were  her  rather  difficult  son.  Poor 
old  Benjy — he  was  not  her  equal  by  any  manner  of  means, 
but  what  he  would  do  alone  one  couldn't  think.  Perhaps 
one  of  his  granddaughters  would  find  room  for  him.  Those 
two  had  brought  up  seven  children  in  the  old  days  when  a 
shilling  fortunately  went  as  far  as  three  now,  and  the 
village  was  full  of  their  progeny;  but  how  would  they  like 
little  old  Benjy,  still  argumentative  and  fond  of  a  grumble 
and  a  glass,  ensconced  by  their  more  modern  hearths? 
Well,  a  nook  would  turn  up  for  him  somewhere.  He  could 
never  live  on  here,  alone.  Two  old  age  pensions  for  two 
old  people  made  just  the  difference  as  against  one  for  one. 

'How  I  wish  I  had  money!'  she  thought.  He  would  not 
want  the  goldfinch,  anyway.  She  would  take  that,  and  free 
and  feed  it  in  the  old  greenhouse  till  it  got  used  to  its 
wings,  and  then  let  it  go. 

The  old  man  cleared  his  throat  in  his  dim  corner.  Dinny 
started  and  leaned  forward.  Absorbed  in  her  thoughts, 
she  had  not  noticed  how  faint  the  breathing  had  become. 
The  pale  lips  of  the  old  woman  were  nearly  closed  now, 
the  wrinkled  lids  almost  fast  over  the  unseeing  eyes.  No 
noise  was  coming  from  the  bed.  For  a  few  minutes  she 
sat  looking,  listening;  then  passed  round  to  the  side  and 
leaned  over. 

Gone?  As  if  in  answer  the  eyelids  flickered;  the  faintest 


OVER     THE     RIVER  Iiy 

imaginable  smile  appeared  on  the  lips,  and  then,  suddenly 
as  a  blown-out  flame  is  dark,  all  was  lifeless.  Dinny  held 
her  breath.  It  was  the  first  human  death  she  had  seen. 
Her  eyes,  glued  to  the  old  waxen  face,  saw  it  settle  into  its 
mask  of  release,  watched  it  being  embalmed  in  that  still 
dignity  which  marks  death  off  from  life.  With  her  finger 
she  smoothed  the  eyelids. 

DeathI  At  its  quietest  and  least  harrowing,  but  yet — 
deathl  The  old,  the  universal  anodyne;  the  common  lotl 
In  this  bed  where  she  had  lain  nightly  for  over  fifty  years 
under  the  low,  sagged  ceiling,  a  great  little  old  lady  had 
passed.  Of  what  was  called  'birth,'  of  position,  wealth,  and 
power,  she  had  none.  No  plumbing  had  come  her  way, 
no  learning,  and  no  fashion.  She  had  borne  children, 
nursed,  fed,  and  washed  them,  sewn,  cooked,  and  swept, 
eaten  little,  travelled  not  at  all  in  all  her  years,  suffered 
much  pain,  never  known  the  ease  of  superfluity;  but  her 
back  had  been  straight,  her  ways  straight,  her  eyes  quiet, 
and  her  manners  gentle.  If  she  were  not  the  'great  lady,' 
who  was? 

Dinny  stood,  with  her  head  bowed,  feeling  this  to  the 
very  marrow  of  her  soul.  Old  Benjy  in  that  dim  corner 
cleared  his  throat  again.  She  started,  and,  trembling  a 
little,  went  over  to  him. 

"Go  and  look  at  her,  Benjy;  she's  asleep." 

She  put  her  hand  under  his  elbow  to  help  the  action  of 
his  stiffened  knees.  At  his  full  height  he  was  only  up  to 
her  shoulder,  a  little  dried-up  pippin  of  a  man.  She  kept 
at  his  side  moving  across  the  room. 

Together  they  looked  down  at  the  forehead  and  cheeks, 
slowly  uncreasing  in  the  queer  beauty  of  death.  The  little 
old  husband's  face  went  crimson  and  puffy,  like  that  of  a 
child  who  has  lost  its  doll;  he  said  in  a  sort  of  angered 
squeak: 

"Ehl  She'm  not  asleep.  She'm  gone.  She  won't 
never  speak  agen.  Lookl  She  an't  Mother  no  morel 


Il8  OVER     THE     RIVER 

Where's  that  nurse?   She  didn'  ought  to  'ave  left  'er " 

"H'ssh!  Benjyl" 

"But  she'm  dead.   What'll  I  do?" 

He  turned  his  withered  apple  face  up  to  Dinny,  and 
there  came  from  him  an  unwashed  odour,  as  of  grief  and 
snuff  and  old  potatoes. 

"Can't  stop  'ere,"  he  said,  "with  Mother  like  that. 
'Tain't  nateral." 

"No;  go  downstairs  and  smoke  your  pipe,  and  tell  nurse 
when  she  comes." 

"Tell  'er;  I'll  tell  'er— shoulden  never  'ave  left  'er. 
Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dearl  Oh,  dearl" 

Putting  her  hand  on  his  shoulders,  Dinny  guided  him 
to  the  stairway,  and  watched  him  stumbling  and  groping 
and  grieving  his  way  down.  Then  she  went  back  to  the 
bed.  The  smoothed-out  face  had  an  uncanny  attraction 
for  her.  With  every  minute  that  passed  it  seemed  the 
more  to  proclaim  superiority.  Almost  triumphant  it  was, 
as  she  gazed,  in  its  slow,  sweet  relaxation  after  age  and  pain; 
character  revealed  in  the  mould  of  that  brief  interval 
between  torturing  life  and  corrupting  death.  'Good  as 
gold!'  Those  were  the  words  they  should  grave  on  the 
humble  stone  they  would  put  over  her.  Wherever  she 
was  now,  or  whether,  indeed,  she  was  anywhere,  did  not 
matter.  She  had  done  her  bit.  Bettyl 

She  was  still  standing  there  gazing  when  the  nurse  came 
back. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SINCE  her  husband's  departure  Clare  had  met  young 
Croom  constantly,  but  always  at  the  stipulated  arm's- 
length.  Love  had  made  him  unsociable,  and  to  be  con- 
spicuously in  his  company  was  unwise,  so  she  did  not 
make  him  known  to  her  friends;  they  met  where  they  could 
eat  cheaply,  see  films,  or  simply  walk.  To  her  rooms  she 
had  not  invited  him  again,  nor  had  he  asked  to  come. 
His  behaviour,  indeed,  was  exemplary,  except  when  he 
fell  into  tense  and  painful  silences,  or  gazed  at  her  till  her 
hands  itched  to  shake  him.  He  seemed  to  have  paid  several 
visits  to  Jack  Muskham's  stud  farm,  and  to  be  spending 
hours  over  books  which  debated  whether  the  excellence  of 
'Eclipse*  was  due  to  the  Lister  Turk,  rather  than  to  the 
Darley  Arabian,  and  whether  it  were  preferable  to  breed-in 
to  Blacklock  with  St.  Simon  on  Speculum  or  with 
Speculum  on  St.  Simon. 

When  she  returned  from  Condaford  after  the  New  Year, 
she  had  not  heard  from  him  for  five  consecutive  days,  so 
that  he  was  bulking  more  largely  in  her  thoughts. 

"DEAR  TONY,"  she  wrote  to  him  at  the  Coffee  House: 

"Where  and  how  are  you?  I  am  back.  Very  happy 
New  Year! 

"Yours  always, 

"CLARE." 

The  answer  did  not  come  for  three  days,  during  which 
she  felt  at  first  huffy,  then  anxious,  and  finally  a  little  scared. 
It  was  indited  from  the  inn  at  Bablock  Hythe: 

"DARLING  CLARE, — 

"I  was  ever  so  relieved  to  get  your  note,  because  I'd 
119 


I2O  OVER     THE     RIVER 

determined  not  to  write  until  I  heard  from  you.  Nothing's 
further  from  my  thoughts  than  to  bore  you  with  myself, 
and  sometimes  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  or  not.  So  far 
as  a  person  can  be  who  is  not  seeing  you,  I'm  all  right;  I'm 
overlooking  the  fitting  up  of  the  boxes  for  those  mares. 
They  (the  boxes)  will  be  prime.  The  difficulty  is  going  to 
be  acclimatisation;  it's  supposed  to  be  mild  here,  and  the 
pasture  looks  as  if  it  would  be  tip-top.  This  part  of  the 
world  is  quite  pretty,  especially  the  river.  Thank  God  the 
inn's  cheap,  and  I  can  live  indefinitely  on  eggs  and  bacon. 
Jack  Muskham  has  been  brick  enough  to  start  my  salary 
from  the  New  Year,  so  I'm  thinking  of  laying  out  my 
remaining  sixty-odd  pounds  on  Stapylton's  old  two-seater. 
He's  just  off  back  to  India.  Once  I'm  down  here  it'll  be 
vital  to  have  a  car  if  I'm  to  see  anything  of  you,  without 
which  life  won't  be  worth  living.  I  hope  you  had  a 
splendid  time  at  Condaford.  Do  you  know  I  haven't  seen 
you  for  sixteen  days,  and  am  absolutely  starving.  I'll  be 
up  on  Saturday  afternoon.  Where  can  I  meet  you? 

"Your  ever  devoted 

"TONY." 

Clare  read  this  letter  on  the  sofa  in  her  room,  frowning 

a  little  as  she  opened,  smiling  a  little  as  she  finished  it. 

Poor  dear  Tony!  Grabbing  a  telegraph  form,  she  wrote: 

"Come  to  tea  Melton  Mews. — C." 

and  despatched  it  on  her  way  to  the  Temple. 

The  importance  attaching  to  the  meeting  of  two  young 
people  depends  on  the  importance  which  others  attach  to 
their  not  meeting.  Tony  Croom  approached  Melton  Mews 
without  thinking  of  anyone  but  Ckre,  and  failed  to 
observe  a  shortish  man  in  horn-rimmed  spectacles,  black 
boots,  and  a  claret-coloured  tie,  who  looked  like  the 
secretary  of  a  learned  society.  Unobtrusive  and  un- 


OVER     THE     RIVER  121 

observed,  this  individual  had  already  travelled  with  him 
from  Bablock  Hythe  to  Paddington,  from  Paddington  to 
the  'Coffee  House,'  from  the  'Coffee  House'  to  the  corner 
of  Melton  Mews;  had  watched  him  enter  No.  2,  made  an 
entry  in  a  pocket-book,  and  with  an  evening  paper  in  his 
hand  was  now  waiting  for  him  to  come  out  again.  With 
touching  fidelity  he  read  no  news,  keeping  his  prominent 
glance  on  that  peacock-blue  door,  prepared  at  any  moment 
to  close  himself  like  an  umbrella  and  vanish  into  the 
street-scape.  And  while  he  waited  (which  was  his  normal 
occupation)  he  thought,  like  other  citizens,  of  the  price 
of  living,  of  the  cup  of  tea  which  he  would  like,  of  his 
small  daughter  and  her  collection  of  foreign  stamps,  and 
of  whether  he  would  now  have  to  pay  income  tax.  His 
imagination  dwelled,  also,  on  the  curves  of  a  young  woman 
at  the  tobacconist's  where  he  obtained  his  'gaspers.' 

His  name  was  Chayne,  and  he  made  his  living  out  of  a  re- 
markable memory  for  faces,  inexhaustible  patience,  careful 
entries  in  his  pocket-book,  the  faculty  of  self-obliteration, 
and  that  fortunate  resemblance  to  the  secretaries  of  learned 
societies.  He  was,  indeed,  employed  by  the  Polteed 
Agency,  who  made  their  living  by  knowing  more  than 
was  good  for  those  about  whom  they  knew  it.  Having 
received  his  instruction  on  the  day  Clare  returned  to 
London,  he  had  already  been  five  days  'on  the  job,'  and 
no  one  knew  it  except  his  employer  and  himself.  Spying 
on  other  people  being,  according  to  the  books  he  read, 
the  chief  occupation  of  the  people  of  these  islands,  it  had 
never  occurred  to  him  to  look  down  on  a  profession 
conscientiously  pursued  for  seventeen  years.  He  took  a 
pride  in  his  work,  and  knew  himself  for  a  capable  'sleuth.' 
Though  somewhat  increasingly  troubled  in  the  bronchial 
regions  owing  to  the  draughts  he  had  so  often  to  stand 
in,  he  could  not  by  now  imagine  any  other  way  of  passing 
his  time,  or  any,  on  the  whole,  more  knowing  method  of 
gaining  a  livelihood.  Young  Groom's  address  he  had 


122  OVER     THE     RIVER 

obtained  by  the  simple  expedient  of  waiting  behind  Clare 
while  she  sent  her  telegram;  but,  having  just  failed  to  read 
the  message  itself,  he  had  started  at  once  for  Bablock 
Hythe,  since  when  until  now  he  had  experienced  no  diffi- 
culty. Shifting  his  position  from  time  to  time  at  the  end 
of  the  street,  he  entered  the  Mews  itself  when  it  became 
dark.  At  half-past  five  the  peacock  door  was  opened  and 
the  two  young  people  emerged.  They  walked,  and  Mr. 
Chayne  walked  behind  them.  They  walked  fast,  and  Mr. 
Chayne,  with  an  acquired  sense  of  rhythm,  at  exactly  the 
same  pace.  He  soon  perceived  that  they  were  merely 
going  to  where  he  had  twice  followed  Lady  Corven  already 
— the  Temple.  And  this  gave  him  a  sense  of  comfort, 
because  of  the  cup  of  tea  he  pined  for.  Picking  his  way  in 
and  out  among  the  backs  of  people  large  enough  to  screen 
him,  he  watched  them  enter  Middle  Temple  Lane,  and  part 
at  Harcourt  Buildings.  Having  noted  that  Lady  Corven 
went  in,  and  that  the  young  man  began  parading  slowly 
between  the  entrance  and  the  Embankment,  he  looked  at 
his  watch,  doubled  back  into  the  Strand,  and  bolted  into 
an  A. B.C.  with  the  words  "Cup  of  tea  and  Bath  bun,  miss, 
please."  While  waiting  for  these  he  made  a  prolonged 
entry  in  his  pocket-book.  Then,  blowing  on  his  tea,  he 
drank  it  from  the  saucer,  ate  half  the  bun,  concealed  the 
other  half  in  his  hand,  paid,  and  re-entered  the  Strand. 
He  had  just  finished  the  bun  when  he  regained  the  entrance 
to  the  Lane.  The  young  man  was  still  parading  slowly. 
Mr.  Chayne  waited  for  his  back  view,  and,  assuming  the 
air  of  a  belated  solicitor's  clerk,  bolted  down  past  the 
entrance  to  Harcourt  Buildings  into  the  Inner  Temple. 
There,  in  a  doorway,  he  scrutinised  names  until  Clare 
came  out.  Rejoined  by  young  Croom,  she  walked  up 
towards  the  Strand,  and  Mr.  Chayne  walked  too.  When, 
shortly,  they  took  tickets  for  a  cinema,  he  also  took  a 
ticket  and  entered  the  row  behind.  Accustomed  to  the 
shadowing  of  people  on  their  guard,  the  open  innocence 


OVER     THE     RIVER  123 

they  were  displaying  excited  in  him  a  slightly  amused  if 
not  contemptuous  compassion.  'Regular  babes  in  the 
wood*  they  seemed  to  him.  He  could  not  tell  whether 
their  feet  were  touching,  and  passed  behind  to  note  the 
position  of  their  hands.  It  seemed  satisfactory,  and  he 
took  an  empty  seat  nearer  to  the  gangway.  Sure  of  them 
now  for  a  couple  of  hours,  he  settled  down  to  smoke,  feel 
warm,  and  enjoy  the  film.  It  was  one  of  sport  and  travel 
in  Africa,  where  the  two  principals  were  always  in  positions 
of  danger,  recorded  by  the  camera  of  someone  who  must 
surely  have  been  in  a  position  of  still  greater  danger. 
Mr.  Chayne  listened  to  their  manly  American  voices  saying 
to  each  other:  "Gee!  He's  on  usl"  with  an  interest  which 
never  prevented  his  knowing  that  his  two  young  people 
were  listening  too.  When  the  lights  went  up  he  could  see 
their  profiles.  We're  all  young  at  times/  he  thought,  and 
his  imagination  dwelled  more  intensively  on  the  young 
lady  at  his  tobacconist's.  They  looked  so  settled-in  that 
he  took  the  opportunity  to  slip  out  for  a  moment.  It 
might  not  occur  again  for  a  long  time.  In  his  opinion  one 
of  the  chief  defects  in  detective  stories — for  he  was  given 
to  busmen's  holidays — was  that  authors  made  their  'sleuths' 
like  unto  the  angels,  watching  for  days  without,  so  to 
speak,  taking  their  eye  off  the  ball.  It  was  not  so  in 
real  life. 

He  returned  to  a  seat  almost  behind  his  young  couple  on 
the  other  side  just  before  the  lights  went  down.  One  of  his 
favourite  stars  was  now  to  be  featured,  and,  sure  that  she 
would  be  placed  in  situations  which  would  enable  him  to 
enjoy  her  to  the  full,  he  put  a  peppermint  lozenge  in  his 
mouth  and  leaned  back  with  a  sigh.  He  had  not  had  an 
evening  watch  so  pleasant  for  a  long  time.  It  was  not 
always  'beer  and  skittles'  at  this  season  of  the  year;  a 
'proper  chilly  job  sometimes — no  error.' 

After  ten  minutes,  during  which  his  star  had  barely 
got  into  her  evening  clothes,  his  couple  rose. 


1 24  OVERTHERIVER 

"Can't  stand  any  more  of  her  voice,"  he  heard  Lady 
Corven  say;  and  the  young  man  answering:  "Ghastly!" 

Wounded  and  surprised,  Mr.  Chayne  waited  for  them 
to  pass  through  the  curtains  before,  with  a  profound  sigh, 
he  followed.  In  the  Strand  they  stood  debating,  then 
walked  again,  but  only  into  a  restaurant  across  the  street. 
Here,  buying  himself  another  paper  at  the  door,  he  saw 
them  going  up  the  stairs.  Would  it  be  a  private  room? 
He  ascended  the  stairs  cautiously.  No,  it  was  the  gallery! 
There  they  were,  nicely  screened  by  the  pillars,  four 
tables  in! 

Descending  to  the  lavatory,  Mr.  Chayne  changed  his 
horn  spectacles  to  pince-nez  and  his  claret-coloured  tie  to 
a  rather  floppy  bow  of  black  and  white.  This  was  a  device 
which  had  often  served  him  in  good  stead.  You  put  on  a 
tie  of  conspicuous  colour,  then  changed  it  to  a  quieter 
one  of  a  different  shape.  A  conspicuous  tie  had  the  special 
faculty  of  distracting  attention  from  a  face.  You  became 
'that  man  with  the  awful  tie!'  and  when  you  no  longer 
wore  the  tie,  you  were  to  all  intents  someone  else.  Going 
up  again  to  a  table  which  commanded  a  view,  he  ordered 
himself  a  mixed  grill  and  pint  of  stout.  They  were  likely 
to  be  some  two  hours  over  their  meal,  so  he  assumed  a 
literary  air,  taking  out  a  pouch  to  roll  himself  a  cigarette 
and  inviting  the  waiter  to  give  him  a  light  for  it.  Having 
in  this  way  established  a  claim  to  a  life  of  his  own,  he  read 
his  paper  like  any  gentleman  at  large  and  examined  the 
mural  paintings.  They  were  warm  and  glowing;  large 
landscapes  with  blue  skies,  seas,  palms,  and  villas,  sug- 
gestive of  pleasure  in  a  way  that  appealed  to  him  strongly. 
He  had  never  been  further  than  Boulogne,  and,  so  far  as 
he  could  see,  never  would.  Five  hundred  pounds,  a  lady, 
a  suite  in  the  sun,  and  gaming  tables  handy,  was  not 
unnaturally  his  idea  of  heaven;  but,  alas,  as  unattainable. 
He  made  no  song  about  it,  but,  when  confronted  with 
allurements  like  these  on  the  wall,  he  could  not  help 


OVER     THE     RIVER  125 

hankering.  It  had  often  struck  him  as  ironical  that  the 
people  he  watched  into  the  Divorce  Court  so  often  went 
to  Paradise  and  stayed  there  until  their  cases  had  blown 
over  and  they  could  marry  and  come  to  earth  again.  Living 
in  Finchley,  with  the  sun  once  a  fortnight  and  an  income 
averaging  perhaps  five  hundred  a  year,  the  vein  of  poetry 
in  him  was  dammed  almost  at  source;  and  it  was  in  some 
sort  a  relief  to  let  his  imagination  play  around  the  lives  of 
those  whom  he  watched.  That  young  couple  over  there, 
'good-lookers'  both  of  them,  would  go  back  together  in 
a  taxi  and  as  likely  as  not  he'd  have  to  wait  hours  for  the 
young  man  to  come  away.  The  mixed  grill  was  put  before 
him,  and  he  added  a  little  red  pepper  in  view  of  his 
probable  future.  This  bit  of  watching,  however,  and 
perhaps  another  one  or  two,  ought  to  do  the  trick;  and 
on  the  whole  'easy  money.'  Slowly  savouring  each 
mouthful  so  that  it  might  nourish  him,  and  blowing  the 
froth  off  his  stout  with  the  skill  of  a  connoisseur,  he 
watched  them  bending  forward  to  talk  across  the  table. 
What  they  were  eating  he  could  not  see.  To  have  followed 
their  meal  in  detail  would  have  given  him  some  indication 
of  their  states  of  mind.  Food  and  love!  After  this  grill 
he  would  have  cheese  and  coffee,  and  put  them  down  to 
'expenses/ 

He  had  eaten  every  crumb,  extracted  all  th*  information 
from  his  paper,  exhausted  his  imagination  on  the  mural 
paintings,  'placed'  the  scattered  diners,  paid  his  bill,  and 
smoked  three  'gaspers'  before  his  quarry  rose.  He  was 
into  his  overcoat  and  outside  the  entrance  before  they  had 
even  reached  the  stairs.  Noting  three  taxis  within  hail,  he 
bent  his  attention  on  the  hoardings  of  an  adjoining 
theatre;  till  he  saw  the  porter  beckon  one  of  them,  then, 
walking  into  the  middle  of  the  Strand,  he  took  the  one 
behind  it. 

"Wait  till  that  cab  starts  and  follow  it,"  he  said  to  the 
driver;  "not  too  close  when  it  stops." 


1 26  OVERTHERIVER 

Taking  his  seat,  he  looked  at  his  watch  and  made  an 
entry  in  his  pocket-book.  Having  before  now  followed  a 
wrong  cab  at  some  expense,  he  kept  his  eyes  glued  on  the 
taxi's  number,  which  he  had  noted  in  his  book.  The 
traffic  was  but  thin  at  this  hour  before  the  theatres  rose, 
and  the  procession  simplicity  itself.  The  followed  cab 
stopped  at  the  corner  of  the  Mews.  Mr.  Chayne  tapped 
the  glass  and  fell  back  on  the  seat.  Through  the  window 
he  saw  them  get  out  and  the  young  man  paying.  They 
walked  down  the  Mews.  Mr.  Chayne  also  paid  and 
followed  to  the  corner.  They  had  reached  the  peacock 
door  and  stood  there,  talking.  Then  Lady  Corven  put  her 
key  into  the  lock  and  opened  the  door;  the  young  man, 
glancing  this  way  and  that,  followed  her  in.  Mr.  Chayne 
experienced  a  sensation  as  mixed  as  his  grill.  It  was,  of 
course,  exactly  what  he  had  hoped  for  and  expected.  At 
the  same  time  it  meant  loitering  about  in  the  cold  for 
goodness  knew  how  long.  He  turned  up  his  coat  collar 
and  looked  for  a  convenient  doorway.  A  thousand  pities 
that  he  could  not  wait,  say  half  an  hour,  and  just  walk  in. 
The  Courts  were  very  particular  nowadays  about  con- 
clusive evidence.  He  had  something  of  the  feeling  that  a 
'sportsman'  has,  seeing  a  fox  go  to  ground  and  not  a  spade 
within  five  miles.  He  stood  for  a  few  minutes,  reading 
over  the  entries  in  his  pocket-book  under  the  lamp,  and 
making  a  final  note;  then  walked  to  the  doorway  he  had 
selected  and  stood  there.  In  half  an  hour  or  so  the  cars 
would  be  coming  back  from  the  theatre,  and  he  would  have 
to  be  on  the  move  to  escape  attention.  There  was  a  light 
in  the  upstairs  window,  but  in  itself,  of  course,  that  was 
not  evidence.  Too  bad!  Twelve  shillings  the  return  ticket, 
ten  and  six  the  night  down  there,  cabs  seven  and  six; 
cinema  three  and  six,  dinner  six  bob — he  wouldn't  charge 
the  tea — thirty-nine  and  six — say  two  pounds  I  Mr.  Chayne 
shook  his  head,  put  a  peppermint  lozenge  in  his  mouth, 
and  changed  his  feet.  That  corn  of  his  was  beginning  to 


OVER     THE     RIVER  127 

shoot  a  bitl  He  thought  of  pleasant  things:  Broadstairs, 
his  small  daughter's  back  hair,  oyster  patties,  his  favourite 
'star*  in  little  but  a  corset  belt,  and  his  own  nightcap  of 
hot  whisky  and  lemon.  All  to  small  purpose;  for  he  was 
waiting  and  waiting  on  feet  that  ached,  and  without  any 
confidence  that  he  was  collecting  anything  of  real  value. 
The  Courts,  indeed,  had  got  into  such  a  habit  of  expecting 
the  parties  to  be  'called  with  a  cup  of  tea*  that  anything 
short  of  it  was  looked  upon  as  suspect.  He  took  out 
his  watch  again.  He  had  been  here  over  half  an  hour. 
And  here  came  the  first  car!  He  must  get  out  of  the  Mewsl 
He  withdrew  to  its  far  end.  And  then  almost  before  he 
had  time  to  turn  his  back  there  came  the  young  man  with 
his  hands  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets,  and  his  shoulders 
hunched,  hurrying  away.  Heaving  a  sigh  of  relief,  Mr. 
Chayne  noted  in  his  pocket-book:  "Mr.  C.  left  at  11.40 
p.m.";  and  walked  towards  his  Finchley  bus. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THOUGH  Dinny  had  no  expert  knowledge  of  pictures,  she 
had,  with  Wilfrid,  made  an  intensive  examination  of  such 
as  were  on  permanent  show  in  London.  She  had  also 
enjoyed  extremely  the  Italian  Exhibition  of  1930.  It  was, 
therefore,  natural  to  accept  her  Uncle  Adrian's  invitation 
to  accompany  him  to  the  French  Exhibition  of  1932.  After 
a  syncopated  lunch  in  Piccadilly  they  passed  through  the 
turnstile  at  one  o'clock  on  January  the  22nd,  and  took 
stand  before  the  Primitives.  Quite  a  number  of*  people 
were  emulating  their  attempt  to  avoid  the  crowd,  so  that 
their  progress  was  slow,  and  it  was  an  hour  before  they 
had  reached  the  Watteaus. 

"  'Gilles,'  "  said  Adrian,  resting  one  leg;  "that  strikes 
me  as  about  the  best  picture  yet,  Dinny.  It's  queer — when 
a  genre  painter  of  the  decorative  school  gets  hold  of  a 
subject  or  a  type  that  grips  him,  how  thoroughly  he'll  stir 
you  up.  Look  at  the  pierrot's  face — what  a  brooding, 
fateful,  hiding-up  expressionl  There's  the  public  per- 
former, with  the  private  life,  incarnate!" 

Dinny  remained  silent. 

"Well,  young  woman?" 

"I  was  wondering  whether  art  was  so  conscious.  Don't 
you  think  he  just  wanted  to  paint  that  white  dress,  and  his 
model  did  the  rest?  It's  a  marvellous  expression,  but 
perhaps  he  had  it.  People  do." 

Adrian  noted  her  face  with  the  tail  of  his  eye.  Yes! 
People  did.  Paint  her  in  repose,  render  her  when  she  wasn't 
aware  of  how  she  was  looking,  of  keeping  her  end  up,  or 
whatever  you  might  call  it,  and  wouldn't  you  have  a  face 
that  stirred  you  with  all  that  lay  behind  it?  Art  was  un- 
satisfactory. When  it  gave  you  the  spirit,  distilled  the 

128 


OVER     THE     RIVER  129 

essence,  it  didn't  seem  real;  and  when  it  gave  you  the 
gross,  cross-currented,  contradictory  surface,  it  didn't 
seem  worth  while.  Attitudes,  fleeting  expressions,  tricks 
of  light — all  by  way  of  being  'real,'  and  nothing  revealed! 
He  said  suddenly: 

"Great  books  and  portraits  are  so  dashed  rare,  because 
artists  won't  high-light  the  essential,  or  if  they  do,  they 
overdo  it." 

"I  don't  see  how  that  applies  to  this  picture,  Uncle.  It's 
not  a  portrait,  it's  a  dramatic  moment  and  a  white  dress." 

"Perhaps I  All  the  same,  if  I  could  paint  you,  Dinny,  as 
you  truly  are,  people  would  say  you  weren't  real." 

"How  fortunate!" 

"Most  people  can't  even  imagine  you." 

"Forgive  imperence,  Uncle,  but — canjw/?" 

Adrian  wrinkled  up  his  goatee. 

"I  like  to  think  so." 

"Oh,  lookl   There's  the  Boucher  Pompadour!" 

After  two  minutes  in  front  of  its  expanse  Adrian 
continued: 

"Well,  for  a  man  who  preferred  it  nude,  he  could  paint 
what  covers  the  female  body  pretty  well,  couldn't  he?" 

"Maintenon  and  Pompadour.  I  always  get  them  mixed." 

"The  Maintenon  wore  blue  stockings,  and  ministered 
to  Louis  the  XlVth." 

"Oh,  yes!  Let's  go  straight  from  here  to  the  Manets, 
Uncle." 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  kst  much  longer." 

Adrian,  glancing  round,  suddenly  saw  why.  In  front 
of  the  Gilles  were  standing  Clare  and  a  young  man  whom 
he  did  not  know.  He  put  his  arm  through  Dinny's  and 
they  passed  into  the  next  room  but  one. 

"I  noticed  your  discretion,"  he  murmured,  in  front  of 
the  'Boy  Blowing  Bubbles.'  "Is  that  young  man  a  snake 
in  the  grass,  or  a  worm  in  the  bud,  or ?" 


130  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"A  very  nice  boy." 

"What's  his  name?" 

"Tony  Groom." 

"Oh!  the  young  man  on  the  ship?  Does  Clare  see  much 
of  him?" 

"I  don't  ask  her,  Uncle.  She  is  guaranteed  to  behave 
for  a  year";  and,  at  the  cock  of  Adrian's  eyebrow,  added: 
"She  promised  Aunt  Em." 

"And  after  the  year?" 

"I  don't  know,  nor  does  she.  Aren't  these  Manets 
good?" 

They  passed  slowly  through  the  room  and  came  to  the 
last. 

"To  think  that  Gauguin  struck  me  as  the  cream  of 
eccentricity  in  1910,"  murmured  Adrian;  "it  shows  how 
things  move.  I  went  to  that  post-impressionist  exhibition 
straight  from  looking  at  the  Chinese  pictures  in  the  B.  M. 
Cezanne,  Matisse,  Gauguin,  Van  Gogh — the  last  word 
then,  hoary  now.  Gauguin  certainly  is  a  colourist.  But 
give  me  the  Chinese  still.  I  fear  I'm  fundamentally  of  the 
old  order,  Dinny." 

"I  can  see  these  are  good — most  of  them;  but  I  couldn't 
live  with  them." 

"The  French  have  their  uses;  no  other  country  can  show 
you  the  transitions  of  art  so  clearly.  From  the  Primitives 
to  Clouet,  from  Clouet  to  Poussin  and  Claude,  from  them 
to  Watteau  and  his  school,  thence  to  Boucher  and  Greu2e, 
on  to  Ingres  and  Delacroix,  to  the  Barbizon  lot,  to  the 
Impressionists,  to  the  Post-Impressionists;  and  always 
some  bloke — Chardin,  Lepicie,  Fragonard,  Manet,  Degas, 
Monet,  Cezanne — breaking  away  or  breaking  through 
towards  the  next." 

"Has  there  ever  before  been  such  a  violent  break  as 
just  lately?" 

"There's  never  before  been  such  a  violent  break  in 
the  way  people  look  at  life;  nor  such  complete  confusion 


OVER     THE     RIVER  13! 

in  the  minds  of  artists  as  to  what  they  exist  for." 
"And  what  do  they  exist  for,  Uncle?" 
"To  give  pleasure  or  reveal  truth,  or  both." 
"I  can't  imagine  myself  enjoying  what  they  enjoy,  and — 
what  is  truth?" 

Adrian  turned  up  his  thumbs. 
"Dinny,  I'm  tired  as  a  dog.   Let's  slip  out." 
Dinny  saw  her  sister  and  young  Groom  passing  through 
the  archway.   She  was  not  sure  whether  Clare  had  noticed 
them,  and  young  Groom  was  clearly  noticing  nothing  but 
Clare.   She  followed  Adrian  out,  in  her  turn  admiring  his 
discretion.   But  neither  of  them  would  admit  uneasiness. 
With  whom  one  went  about  was  now  so  entirely  one's  own 
business. 

They  had  walked  up  the  Burlington  Arcade,  when 
Adrian  was  suddenly  startled  by  the  pallor  of  her  face. 
"What's  the  matter,  Dinny?  You  look  like  a  ghostl" 
"If  you  don't  mind,  Uncle,  I'd  like  a  cup  of  coffee." 
"There's  a  place  in  Bond  Street."   Scared  by  the  blood- 
lessness  of  her  smiling  lips,  he  held  her  arm  firmly  till 
they  were  seated  at  a  little  table  round  the  corner. 

"Two  coffees — extra  strong,"  said  Adrian,  and  with 
that  instinctive  consideration  which  caused  women  and 
children  to  confide  in  him,  he  made  no  attempt  to  gain 
her  confidence. 

"Nothing  so  tiring  as  picture-gazing.  I'm  sorry  to 
emulate  Em  and  suspect  you  of  not  eating  enough,  my 
dear.  That  sort  of  sparrow-pecking  we  did  before  going 
in  doesn't  really  count."  But  colour  had  come  back  to 
her  lips. 

"I'm  very  tough,  Uncle;  but  food  is  rather  a  bore." 
"You  and  I  must  go  a  little  tour  in  France.   Their  grub 
can  move  one's  senses  if  their  pictures  can't  move  one's 
spirit." 

"Did  you  feel  tbatF 

"Compared  with  the  Italian — emphatically.    It's  all  so 


132  OVER     THE     RIVER 

beautifully  thought  out.  They  make  their  pictures  like 
watches.  Perfectly  art-conscious  and  thorough  workmen. 
Unreasonable  to  ask  for  more,  and  yet — perhaps  funda- 
mentally unpoetic.  And  that  reminds  me,  Dinny,  I  do 
hope  Clare  can  be  kept  out  of  the  Divorce  Court,  for  of 
all  unpoetic  places  that  is  IT." 

Dinny  shook  her  head. 

"I'd  rather  she  got  it  over.  I  even  think  she  was  wrong 
to  promise.  She's  not  going  to  change  her  mind  about 
Jerry.  She'll  be  like  a  bird  with  one  leg.  Besides,  who 
thinks  the  worse  of  you  nowadaysl" 

Adrian  moved  uncomfortably. 

"I  dislike  the  thought  of  those  hard-boiled  fellows 
playing  battledore  with  my  kith  and  kin.  If  they  were  like 
Dornford — but  they  aren't.  Seen  anything  more  of  him?" 

"He  was  down  with  us  for  one  night  when  he  had  to 
speak." 

He  noticed  that  she  spoke  without  'batting  an  eyelid,' 
as  the  young  men  called  it  nowadays.  And,  soon  after, 
they  parted,  Dinny  assuring  him  that  she  had  "come  over 
quite  well  again." 

He  had  said  that  she  looked  like  a  ghost;  he  might  better 
have  said  she  looked  as  if  she  had  seen  one.  For,  coming 
out  of  that  Arcade,  all  her  past  in  Cork  Street  had  come 
fluttering  like  some  lonely  magpie  towards  her,  beaten 
wings  in  her  face  and  swerved  away.  And  now,  alone,  she 
turned  and  walked  back  there.  Resolutely  she  went  to 
the  door,  climbed  the  stairs  to  Wilfrid's  rooms,  and  rang 
the  bell.  Leaning  against  the  window-sill  on  the  landing, 
she  waited  with  clasped  hands,  thinking:  'I  wish  I  had  a 
muff!'  Her  hands  felt  so  cold.  In  old  pictures  they  stood 
with  veils  down  and  their  hands  in  muffs;  but  'the  old 
order  changeth,'  and  she  had  none.  She  was  just  going 
away  when  the  door  was  opened.  Stackl  In  slippers!  His 
glance,  dark  and  prominent  as  ever,  fell  to  those  slippers 
and  his  demeanour  seemed  to  stammer. 


OVER     THE     RIVER  133 

"Pardon  me,  miss,  I  was  just  going  to  change  'em." 

Dinny  held  out  her  hand,  and  he  took  it  with  his  old 
air,  as  if  about  to  'confess*  her. 

"I  was  passing,  and  thought  I'd  like  to  ask  how  you 
were." 

"Fine,  thank  you,  missl  Hope  you've  been  keeping 
well,  and  the  dog?" 

"Quite  well,  both  of  us.   Foch  likes  the  country." 

"Ahl  Mr.  Desert  always  thought  he  was  a  country 
dog." 

"Have  you  any  news?" 

"Not  to  say  news,  miss.  I  understand  from  his  bank 
that  he's  still  in  Siam.  They  forward  his  letters  to  their 
branch  in  Bangkok.  His  lordship  was  here  not  long  ago, 
and  I  understood  him  to  say  that  Mr.  Desert  was  up  a 
river  somewhere." 

"A  riverl" 

"The  name  escapes  me,  something  with  a  'Yi'  in  it,  and 
a  'sang' — was  it?  I  believe  it's  very  'ot  there.  If  I  may 
say  so,  miss,  you  haven't  much  colour  considering  the 
country.  I  was  down  home  in  Barnstaple  at  Christmas, 
and  it  did  me  a  power  of  good." 

Dinny  took  his  hand  again. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  have  seen  you,  Stack." 

"Come  in,  miss.  You'll  see  I  keep  the  room  just  as  it 
was." 

Dinny  followed  to  the  doorway  of  the  sitting-room. 

"Exactly  the  same,  Stack;  he  might  almost  be  there." 

"I  like  to  think  so,  miss." 

"Perhaps  he  is,"  said  Dinny.  "They  say  we  have  astral 
bodies.  Thank  you."  She  touched  his  arm,  passed  him, 
and  went  down  the  stairs.  Her  face  quivered  and  was  still, 
and  she  walked  rapidly  away. 

A  riverl   Her  dreaml   'One  more  river!' 

In  Bond  Street  a  voice  said:  "Dinny!"  and  she  turned 
to  see  Fleur. 


134  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Whither  away,  my  dear?  Haven't  seen  you  for  an  age. 
I've  just  been  to  the  French  pictures.  Aren't  they  divine? 
I  saw  Clare  there  with  a  young  man  in  tow.  Who  is  he?" 

"A  shipmate — Tony  Groom." 

"More  to  come?" 

Dinny  shrugged,  and,  looking  at  her  trim  companion, 
thought:  'I  wish  Fleur  didn't  always  go  so  straight  to  the 
point.' 

"Any  money?" 

"No.  He's  got  a  job,  but  it's  very  slender — Mr. 
Muskham's  Arab  mares." 

"OhI  Three  hundred  a  year — five  at  the  outside.  That's 
no  good  at  all.  You  know,  really,  she's  making  a  great 
mistake.  Jerry  Corven  will  go  far." 

Dinny  said  drily:  "Further  than  Clare,  anyway." 

"You  mean  it's  a  complete  breach?" 

Dinny  nodded.  She  had  never  been  so  near  disliking 
Fleur. 

"Well,  Clare's  not  like  you.  She  belongs  to  the  new 
order,  or  disorder.  That's  why  it's  a  mistake.  She'd  have 
a  much  better  time  if  she  stuck  to  Jerry,  nominally  at  least. 
I  can't  see  her  poor." 

"She  doesn't  care  about  money,"  said  Dinny  coldly. 

"Oh,  nonsensel  Money's  only  being  able  to  do  what  you 
want  to  do.  Clare  certainly  cares  about  that." 

Dinny,  who  knew  that  this  was  true,  said,  still  more 
coldly: 

"It's  no  good  to  try  and  explain." 

"My  dear,  there's  nothing  to  explain.  He's  hurt  her  in 
some  way,  as,  of  course,  he  would.  That's  no  reason  in 
the  long  run.  That  perfectly  lovely  Renoir — the  man  and 
woman  in  the  box!  Those  people  lived  lives  of  their  own — 
together.  Why  shouldn't  Clare?" 

"Would  you?" 

Fleur  gave  a  little  shrug  of  her  beautifully  fitted 
shoulders. 


OVER     THE     RIVER  135 

"If  Michael  wasn't  such  a  dear.  Besides — children." 
Again  she  gave  that  little  shrug. 

Dinny  thawed.  "You're  a  fraud,  Fleur.  You  don't 
practise  what  you  preach." 

"My  dear,  my  case  is  exceptional." 

"So  is  everybody's." 

"Well,  don't  let's  squabble.  Michael  says  your  new 
Member,  Dornford,  is  after  his  own  heart.  They're 
working  together  on  pigs,  poultry,  and  potatoes.  A  great 
stunt,  and  the  right  end  of  the  stick,  for  once." 

"Yes,  we're  going  all  out  for  pigs  at  Condaford.  Is 
Uncle  Lawrence  doing  anything  at  Lippinghall?" 

"No.  He  invented  the  plan,  so  he  thinks  he's  done  his 
bit.  Michael  will  make  him  do  more  when  he's  got  time. 
Em  is  screamingly  funny  about  it.  How  do  you  like 
Dornford?" 

Asked  this  question  twice  in  one  morning,  Dinny  looked 
her  cousin  by  marriage  full  in  the  face. 

"He  seems  to  me  almost  a  paragon." 

She  felt  Fleur's  hand  slip  suddenly  under  her  arm. 

"I  wish  you'd  marry  him,  Dinny  dear.  One  doesn't 
marry  paragons,  but  I  fancy  one  could  'fault'  him  if  one 
tried." 

It  was  Dinny's  turn  to  give  a  little  shrug,  looking 
straight  before  her. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  third  of  February  was  a  day  so  bland  and  of  such 
spring-like  texture  that  the  quickened  blood  demanded 
adventure. 

This  was  why  Tony  Groom  sent  an  early  wire  and  set 
out  at  noon  from  Bablock  Hythe  in  his  old  but  newly- 
acquired  two-seater.  The  car  was  not  his  'dream/  but  it 
could  do  fifty  at  the  pinch  he  liked  to  give  it.  He  took  the 
nearest  bridge,  ran  for  Abingdon,  and  on  past  Benson  to 
Henley.  There  he  stopped  to  snatch  a  sandwich  and  'fill 
up/  and  again  on  the  bridge  for  a  glimpse  at  the  sunlit 
river  softly  naked  below  the  bare  woods.  From  there  on 
he  travelled  by  the  clock,  timing  himself  to  reach  Melton 
Mews  at  two  o'clock. 

Clare  was  not  ready,  having  only  just  come  in.  He  sat 
in  the  downstairs  room,  now  furnished  with  three  chairs, 
a  small  table,  of  quaint  design,  cheap  owing  to  the  slump 
in  antiques,  and  an  amethyst-coloured  chased  decanter 
containing  sloe  gin.  Nearly  half  an  hour  he  sat  there  before 
she  came  down  the  spiral  stairs  in  fawn-coloured  tweeds 
and  hat,  with  a  calfskin  fur  coat  over  her  arm. 

"Well,  my  dear!  Sorry  to  have  kept  you.  Where  are  we 
going?" 

"I  thought  you  might  care  to  have  a  look  at  Bablock 
Hythe.  Then  we  might  come  back  through  Oxford,  have 
high  tea  there,  wander  about  a  bit  among  the  colleges, 
and  be  back  here  before  eleven.  That  do?" 

"Perfect.   And  where  will  you  sleep?" 

"I?   OhI  tool  along  home  again.   I'd  be  there  by  one." 

"Poor  Tony!   A  hard  day!" 

"Oh!  Not  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles.  You  won't  want 
your  fur  on  yet,  the  car  doesn't  open — worse  luck." 

136 


OVER     THE     RIVER  137 

They  passed  out  at  the  westward  mouth  of  the  mews, 
narrowly  missing  a  motor  cyclist,  and  slid  on  towards  the 
Park. 

"She  goes  well,  Tony." 

"Yes,  she's  an  easy  old  thing,  but  I  always  feel  she  might 
bust  at  any  moment.  Stapylton  gave  her  a  terrible  doing. 
And  I  don't  like  a  light-coloured  car." 

Clare  leaned  back,  by  the  smile  on  her  lips  she  was 
enjoying  herself. 

There  was  little  conversation  on  that,  the  first  long 
drive  they  had  taken  together.  Both  had  the  youthful  love 
of  speed,  and  young  Groom  got  every  ounce  out  of  the 
car  that  the  traffic  would  permit.  They  reached  the  last 
crossing  of  the  river  under  two  hours. 

"Here's  the  inn  where  I  dig,"  he  said  presently.  "Would 
you  like  tea?" 

"Not  wise,  my  dear.  When  I've  seen  the  boxes  and 
paddocks,  we'll  get  out  of  here  to  where  you're  not 
known." 

"I  must  just  show  you  the  river." 

Through  its  poplars  and  willow  trees  the  white  way  of 
the  river  gleamed,  faintly  goldened  by  the  sunken  sun. 
They  got  out  to  look.  The  lamb's-tails  on  the  hazels  were 
very  forward. 

Clare  twisted  off  a  spray. 

"False  spring.  There's  a  lot  to  come  before  the  real 
spring  yet." 

A  current  of  chilly  air  came  stealing  down  the  river, 
and  mist  could  be  seen  rising  on  the  meadows  beyond. 

"Only  a  ferry  here,  then,  Tony?" 

"Yes,  and  a  short  cut  into  Oxford  the  other  side,  about 
five  miles.  I've  walked  it  once  or  twice:  rather  nice." 

"When  the  blossom  and  meadow  flowers  come,  it'll  be 
jolly.  Come  alongl  Just  show  me  where  the  paddocks  lie, 
and  we'll  get  on  to  Oxford." 

They  got  back  into  the  car. 


138  OVERTHERIVER 

"Won't  you  see  the  boxes?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I'll  wait  till  the  mares  are  here.  There's  a  subtle  dis- 
tinction between  your  bringing  me  to  look  at  boxes  and 
my  coming  to  look  at  mares.  Are  they  really  from  Nejd?" 

"So  Muskham  swears.  I  shall  believe  or  not  when  I've 
seen  the  syces  in  charge  of  them." 

"What  colour?" 

"Two  bays  and  a  chestnut." 

The  three  paddocks  sloped  slightly  towards  the  river 
and  were  sheltered  by  a  long  spinney. 

"Ideal  drainage  and  all  the  sun  there  is.  The  boxes  are 
round  that  corner  under  the  spinney.  There's  a  good  deal 
to  do  still;  we're  putting  in  a  heater." 

"It's  very  quiet  here." 

"Practically  no  cars  on  this  road;  motor  cycles  now  and 
then — there's  one  now." 

A  cycle  came  sputtering  towards  them,  stopped, 
wrenched  round,  and  went  sputtering  back. 

"Noisy  brutes!"  murmured  young  Groom.  "However, 
the  mares  will  have  had  their  baptism  by  the  time  they 
get  here." 

"What  a  change  for  them,  poor  dears!" 

"They're  all  to  be  golden  something:  Golden  Sand, 
Golden  Houri,  and  Golden  Hind,  these  three." 

"I  didn't  know  Jack  Muskham  was  a  poet." 

"It  stops  at  horses,  I  think." 

"Really  marvellous,  the  stillness,  Tony!" 

"Past  five.  The  men  have  stopped  work  on  my  cottages 
— they're  converting." 

"How  many  rooms?" 

"Four.  Bedroom,  sitting-room,  kitchen,  bathroom.  But 
one  could  build  on." 

He  looked  at  her  intently.   But  her  face  was  averted. 

"Well,"  he  said  abruptly,  "all  aboard.  We'll  get  to 
Oxford  before  dark." 


OVER     THE     RIVER  139 

Oxford — between  lights,  like  all  towns,  at  its  worst — 
seemed  to  say:  "Doomed  to  villadom,  cars,  and  modernity, 
I  am  beyond  your  aid." 

To  those  two,  hungry  and  connected  with  Cambridge, 
it  offered  little  attraction  till  they  were  seated  in  the  Mitre 
before  anchovy  sandwiches,  boiled  eggs,  toast,  muffins, 
scones,  jam,  and  a  large  pot  of  tea.  With  every  mouthful 
the  romance  of  Oxford  became  apparent.  This  old  inn, 
where  they  alone  were  eating,  the  shining  fire,  red 
curtains  being  drawn,  the  unexpected  cosy  solitude,  pre- 
pared them  to  find  it  'marvellous'  when  they  should  set 
forth.  A  motor  cyclist  in  leather  overalls  looked  in  and 
went  away.  Three  undergraduates  chirped  in  the  door- 
way, selected  a  table  for  dinner,  and  passed  on.  Now  and 
again  a  waitress  renewed  their  toast  or  fiddled  at  some 
table.  They  were  deliciously  alone.  Not  till  past  seven 
did  they  rise. 

"Let's  scout,"  said  Clare.  "We've  lots  of  time." 

The  Oxford  world  was  dining,  and  the  streets  were 
almost  empty.  They  wandered  at  random,  choosing  the 
narrower  ways  and  coming  suddenly  on  colleges  and  long 
old  walls.  Nothing  seemed  modern  now.  The  Past  had 
them  by  the  throat.  Dark  towers,  and  old  half-lit  stone- 
work; winding,  built  in,  glimpsy  passages;  the  sudden 
spacious  half-lighted  gloom  of  a  chanced-on  quadrangle; 
chiming  of  clocks,  and  the  feeling  of  a  dark  and  old  and 
empty  town  that  was  yet  brimming  with  hidden  modern 
life  and  light,  kept  them  almost  speechless;  and,  since  they 
had  never  known  their  way,  they  were  at  once  lost. 

Young  Croom  had  entwined  her  arm  in  his,  and  kept 
his  step  in  time  to  hers.  Neither  of  them  was  romantic, 
but  both  just  then  had  a  feeling  as  if  they  had  wandered 
into  the  maze  of  history. 

"I  rather  wish,"  said  Clare,  "that  I'd  been  up  here  or  at 
Cambridge." 

"One  never  got  a  nooky  feeling  like  this  at  Cambridge. 


140  OVER     THE     RIVER 

In  the  dark  this  is  much  more  mediaeval.  There  the 
colleges  are  together  in  a  line.  The  'backs'  lay  over  any- 
thing they've  got  here,  but  the  old  atmosphere  here  is  far 
stronger." 

"I  believe  I  could  have  enjoyed  the  past.  Palfreys  and 
buff  jerkins.  You'd  have  looked  divine,  Tony,  in  a  buff 
jerkin,  and  one  of  those  caps  with  a  long  green  feather." 

"The  present  with  you  is  good  enough  for  me.  This  is 
the  longest  time  we've  ever  spent  together  without  a 
break." 

"Don't  get  soppy.  We're  here  to  look  at  Oxford.  Which 
way  shall  we  go  now?" 

"All  the  same  to  me,"  said  his  remote  voice. 

"Hurt?  That's  a  big  college!   Let's  go  in." 

"They'll  be  coming  out  of  hall.  Past  eight;  we'd  better 
stick  to  the  streets." 

They  wandered  up  the  Cornmarket  to  the  Broad,  stood 
before  the  statues  on  the  right,  then  turned  into  a  dim 
square  with  a  circular  building  in  the  centre,  a  church  at 
the  end,  and  colleges  for  its  side  walls. 

"This  must  be  the  heart,"  said  Clare.  "Oxford  certainly 
has  its  points.  Whatever  they  do  to  the  outside,  I  don't 
see  how  they  can  spoil  all  this." 

With  mysterious  suddenness  the  town  had  come  to  life; 
youths  were  passing  with  short  gowns  over  their  arms, 
flapping  free,  or  wound  round  their  necks.  Of  one  of  them 
young  Groom  asked  where  they  were. 

"That's  the  RadcHffe.  This  is  Brasenose,  and  the  High's 
down  there." 

"And  the  Mitre?" 

"To  your  right." 

"Thanks." 

"Not  at  all." 

He  bent  his  uncapped  head  towards  Clare  and  flapped  on. 

"Well,  Tony?" 

"Let's  go  in  and  have  cocktails." 


OVERTHERIVER  141 

A  motorist,  well  capped  and  leathered,  standing  by  his 
cycle,  looked  after  them  intently  as  they  went  into  the 
hotel. 

After  cocktails  and  biscuits,  they  came  out  feeling, 
as  young  Groom  said:  "Bright  and  early.  We'll  go  back 
over  Magdalen  Bridge,  through  Benson,  Dorchester,  and 
Henley." 

"Stop  on  the  bridge,  Tony.  I  want  to  see  my  name- 
sake." 

The  bridge  lights  threw  splashes  on  the  Cherwell's  inky 
stream,  the  loom  of  Magdalen  lay  solid  on  the  dark,  and 
away  towards  the  Christchurch  meadows  a  few  lamps 
shone.  Whence  they  had  come  the  broad,  half-lighted 
strip  of  street  ran  between  glimpsed  grey  frontages  and 
doorways.  And  the  little  river  over  which  they  were  at 
a  standstill  seemed  to  flow  with  secrecy. 

"The  'Char'  they  call  it,  don't  they?" 

"In  the  summer  I  shall  have  a  punt,  Clare.  The  upper 
river's  even  better  than  this." 

"Will  you  teach  me  to  punt?" 

"Won't  I!" 

"Nearly  tenl   Well,  I've  enjoyed  that,  Tony." 

He  gave  her  a  long  side-glance  and  started  the  engine. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  must  always  be  'moving  on'  with  her. 
Would  there  never  be  a  long  and  perfect  stop? 

"Sleepy,  Clare?" 

"Not  really.  That  was  a  mighty  strong  cocktail.  If 
you're  tired  I  could  drive." 

"Tired?  Gracious,  no!  I  was  only  thinking  that  every 
mile  takes  me  that  much  away  from  you." 

In  the  dark  a  road  seems  longer  than  by  day,  and  so 
different.  A  hundred  unremembered  things  appear — 
hedges,  stacks,  trees,  houses,  turnings.  Even  the  villages 
seem  different.  In  Dorchester  they  stopped  to  make  sure 
of  the  right  turning;  a  motor  cyclist  passed  them,  and 
young  Croom  called  out:  "To  Henley?" 


142  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Straight  on!" 

They  came  to  another  vilkge. 

"This,"  said  young  Groom,  "must  be  Nettlebed. 
Nothing  till  Henley  now,  and  then  it's  thirty-five  miles. 
We  shall  be  up  by  twelve." 

"Poor  dear,  and  you've  got  to  do  all  this  back  again." 

"I  shall  drive  like  Jehu.  It's  a  good  anodyne." 

Clare  touched  his  coat  cuff,  and  there  was  another 
silence. 

They  had  reached  a  wood  when  he  slackened  suddenly. 
"My  lights  have  gone!" 

A  motor  cyclist  skidded  past,  calling:  "Your  lights  are 
out,  sir!" 

Young  Groom  stopped  the  engine. 

"That's  torn  it.  The  battery  must  be  used  up." 

Clare  laughed.  He  got  out  and  moved  round,  examining 
the  car.  "I  remember  this  wood.  It's  a  good  five  miles  to 
Henley.  We  must  creep  on  and  trust  to  luck." 

"Shall  I  get  out  and  walk  ahead?" 

"No,  it's  so  pitch  dark.  I  might  run  over  you." 

After  a  hundred  yards  or  so  he  stopped  again. 

"I'm  off  the  road.  I've  never  driven  in  darkness  like 
this." 

Clare  laughed  again. 

"An  adventure,  my  dear." 

"I've  got  no  torch.  This  wood  goes  on  for  a  mile  or 
two,  if  I  remember." 

"Let's  try  again." 

A  car  whizzed  past,  and  the  driver  shouted  at  them. 

"Follow  his  lights,  Tony!"  But  before  he  could  start  the 
engine  the  car  had  clipped  or  turned  and  was  gone.  They 
crept  on  slowly. 

"Damn!"  said  young  Croom,  suddenly,  "off  the  road 
again!" 

"Pull  her  right  in  off  the  road  then,  and  let's  think. 
Isn't  there  anything  at  all  before  Henley?" 


OVERTHERIVER  143 

"Not  a  thing.  Besides,  recharging  a  battery  can't  be 
done  just  anywhere;  but  I  expect  it's  a  wire  gone." 

"Shall  we  leave  the  car  and  walk  in?  She'll  be  all  right 
here  in  the  wood." 

"And  then?"  muttered  young  Groom.  "I  must  be  back 
with  her  by  daylight.  I'll  tell  you  what;  I'll  walk  you  in  to 
the  hotel,  borrow  a  torch  and  come  back  to  her.  With  a 
torch  I  could  get  her  down,  or  stay  with  her  till  daylight, 
and  then  come  down  and  pick  you  up  at  the  Bridge." 

"Ten  miles  walking  for  youl  Why  not  both  stay  with 
her  and  see  the  sun  rise?  I've  always  wanted  to  spend  a 
night  in  a  car." 

In  young  Groom  a  struggle  took  place.  A  whole  night 
with  her — alonel 

"D'you  mean  you'd  trust  me?" 

"Don't  be  old-fashioned,  Tony.  It's  much  the  best  thing 
to  do,  and  rather  a  lark.  If  a  car  came  into  us,  or  we  were 
run  in  for  driving  without  lights,  that  would  be  awkward 
if  you  like." 

"There's  never  a  moon  when  you  want  one,"  muttered 
young  Groom.  "You  really  mean  it?" 

Clare  touched  his  arm. 

"Pull  her  further  in,  among  the  trees.  Very  slow.  Look 
out!  Stop!" 

There  was  a  slight  bump.  Clare  said: 

"We're  up  against  a  tree,  and  our  tail's  to  the  road.  I'll 
get  out  and  see  if  anyone  can  see  us." 

Young  Groom  waited,  arranging  the  cushions  and  rug 
for  her.  He  was  thinking:  'She  can't  really  love  me,  or 
she'd  never  take  it  so  coolly!'  Quivering  at  the  thought  of 
this  long  dark  night  with  her,  he  yet  knew  it  was  going  to 
be  torture.  Her  voice  said: 

"All  right.  I  should  say  no  one  could  sec  the  car.  You 
go  and  have  a  look.  I'll  get  in." 

He  had  to  feel  his  way  with  his  feet.  The  quality  of  the 
ground  showed  him  when  he  had  reached  the  road.  It  was 


144  OVER     THE     RIVER 

less  densely  dark,  but  he  could  see  no  stars.  The  car  was 
completely  invisible.  He  waited,  then  turned  to  feel  his 
way  back.  So  lost  was  the  car  that  he  had  to  whistle  and 
wait  for  her  answering  whistle  to  find  it.  Dark,  indeed!  He 
got  in. 

"Window  down  or  up?" 

"Half-way  down,  I  should  say.  I'm  very  comfy,  Tony." 
"Thank  God  for  that!  D'you  mind  my  pipe?" 
"Of  course  not.    Give  me  a  cigarette.    This  is  almost 
perfect." 

"Almost,"  he  said  in  a  small  voice. 
"I  should  like  to  see  Aunt  Em's  face.  Are  you  warm?" 
"Nothing  goes  through  leather.   Are  you?" 
"Lovely!"   There  was  a  silence;  then  she  said:    "Tony! 
Forgive  me,  won't  you?  I  did  promise." 
"It's  quite  all  right,"  said  young  Groom. 
"I  can  just  see  your  nose  by  your  pipe's  glow." 
By  the  light  of  her  cigarette  he,  in  turn,  could  see  her 
teeth,  her  smiling  lips,  her  face  lasting  just  to  the  eyes,  and 
fading  out. 

"Take  off  your  hat,  Ckre.  And  any  time  you  like,  here's 
my  shoulder." 

"Don't  let  me  snore." 
"You  snore!" 

"Everyone  snores  on  occasion.  This  will  be  it." 
They  talked  for  a  little.  But  all  seemed  unreal,  except 
just  being  beside  her  in  the  dark.  He  could  hear  now  and 
again  a  car  passing;  other  noises  of  the  night  there  were 
none;  too  dark  even  for  the  owls.  His  pipe  went  out,  and 
he  put  it  away.  She  lay  back  beside  him  so  close  that  he 
could  feel  her  arm  against  his.  He  held  his  breath.  Had  she 
dropped  off?  Oh!  He  was  in  for  a  sleepless  night,  with  this 
faint  perfume  from  her  egging  on  his  senses  and  the 
warmth  of  her  arm  tingling  into  his.  Even  if  this  were 
all,  it  would  be  sheer  waste  to  sleep.  Drowsily  she 
said: 


OVERTHERIVER  145 

"If  you  really  don't  mind,  I  will  put  my  head  on  your 
shoulder,  Tony." 

"Mind!" 

Her  head  snuggled  down  on  to  his  scarf;  and  the  faint 
perfume,  which  carried  with  it  reminder  of  a  sunny  pine 
wood,  increased.  Was  it  credible  that  she  was  there  against 
his  shoulder,  and  would  be  for  another  six  or  seven  hours? 
And  he  shuddered.  So  still  and  matter-of-fact!  No  sign  in 
her  of  passion  or  disturbance;  he  might  have  been  her 
brother.  With  the  force  of  revelation  he  perceived  that  this 
night  would  be  a  test  that  he  must  pass;  for  if  he  did  not  she 
would  recoil  and  drop  away  from  him.  She  was  asleep. 
Oh!  yes.  You  couldn't  counterfeit  that  little  regular  cluck, 
as  of  the  tiniest  chicken — a  perfect  little  sound,  faintly 
comic,  infinitely  precious!  Whatever  happened  to  him  now, 
he  would  have  passed  a  night  with  her!  He  sat — still  as  a 
mouse,  if  mice  are  still.  Her  head  grew  heavier  and  more 
confiding  with  the  deepening  of  her  slumber.  And,  while 
he  sat  and  listened,  his  feeling  for  her  deepened  too, 
became  almost  a  passion  of  protection  and  of  service.  And 
the  night,  cold,  dark,  still — no  cars  were  passing  now — 
kept  him  company;  like  some  huge,  dark,  enveloping,  just 
breathing  creature,  it  was  awake.  The  night  did  not  sleep! 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  realised  that.  Night  was 
wakeful  as  the  day.  Unlighted  and  withdrawn,  it  had  its 
sentience — neither  spoke  nor  moved,  just  watched,  and 
breathed.  With  stars  and  moon,  or,  as  to-night,  lampless 
and  shuttered,  it  was  a  great  companion. 

His  arm  grew  stiff,  and,  as  if  that  reached  her  conscious- 
ness, she  withdrew  her  head  but  did  not  wake.  He  rubbed 
his  shoulder  just  in  time,  for  almost  at  once  her  head  lolled 
back  again.  Screwing  round  till  his  lips  just  touched  her 
hair,  he  heard  again,  chicklike  and  bland,  that  faint  rhythmic 
cluck.  It  ceased  and  became  the  deeper  breathing  of  far- 
down  slumber.  Then  drowsiness  crept  on  him  too;  he  slept. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

YOUNG  Groom  awoke,  stiff  and  unconscious  of  where  he 
was.  A  voice  said: 

"It's  just  getting  light,  Tony,  but  I  can't  see  to  read  the 
hymn." 

He  sat  up.  "HeavensI  Have  I  been  asleep?" 

"Yes,  poor  dear.  I've  had  a  perfect  night,  just  a  little 
achy  in  the  legs.  What's  the  time?" 

Young  Groom  looked  at  his  watch's  illumined  hands. 

"Nearly  half-past  six.  Pins  and  needles.  Wowl" 

"Let's  get  out  and  stretch." 

His  voice,  far  away,  even  from  himself,  answered:  "And 
so  it's  over." 

"Was  it  so  terrible?" 

He  put  his  hands  to  his  head,  and  did  not  answer.  The 
thought  that  next  night  and  all  the  nights  to  come  he  would 
be  apart  from  her  again  was  like  a  blow  over  the  heart. 

She  opened  the  door. 

"I'm  going  to  stamp  my  feet  a  bit.  Then  we  might  have 
a  stroll  to  warm  ourselves.  We  shan't  get  breakfast  any- 
where till  eight." 

He  started  the  engine  to  warm  the  car.  Light  was 
creeping  into  the  wood;  he  could  see  the  beech-tree  against 
whose  trunk  they  had  passed  the  night.  Then  he,  too,  got 
out  and  walked  towards  the  road.  Still  grey-dark  and 
misty,  the  wood  on  either  side  of  its  dim  open  streak  looked 
mournful  and  mysterious.  No  wind,  no  soundl  He  felt  as 
Adam  might  have  felt,  dragging  towards  the  Park  Gates  of 
Eden  without  having  earned  the  right  to  be  expelled. 
Adam!  That  quaint,  amiable,  white,  bearded  creature. 
Man  before  he  'fell,'  a  nonconformist  preacher  in  a  state  of 
nature,  with  a  pet  snake,  a  prize  apple,  and  a  female 

146 


OVBR     THE     RIVER  147 

secretary  coy  and  unshingled  as  Lady  Godival  His  blood 
began  to  flow  again,  and  he  returned  to  the  car. 

Clare  was  kneeling  and  attending  to  her  hair  with  a 
pocket  comb  and  mirror. 

"How  are  you  feeling,  Tony?" 

"Pretty  rotten.  I  think  we'll  shove  along  and  have 
breakfast  at  Maidenhead  or  Slough." 

"Why  not  at  home?  We  could  be  there  by  eight.  I  make 
very  good  coffee." 

"Fine!"  said  young  Groom:  'Til  do  fifty  all  the  way." 

On  that  very  fast  drive  they  spoke  little.  Both  were  too 
hungry. 

"While  I'm  getting  breakfast,  Tony,  you  can  shave  and 
have  a  bath.  You'll  save  time  and  feel  comfy  driving  back. 
I'll  have  mine  later." 

"I  think,"  said  young  Groom,  at  the  Marble  Arch,  "I'd 
better  park  the  car.  You  go  on  in  alone;  it's  too  con- 
spicuous driving  up  at  this  time  in  the  morning;  the 
chauffeurs  are  sure  to  be  working.  I'll  slip  along  in  ten 
minutes." 

When,  at  eight  o'clock,  he  reached  the  Mews,  she  was  in  a 
blue  wrapper,  the  little  table  in  the  downstair  room  was  set 
for  breakfast,  and  there  was  already  a  scent  of  coffee. 

"I've  turned  the  bath  on,  Tony,  and  you'll  find  a 
razor." 

"Darlingl"  said  young  Groom.  "Shan't  be  ten  minutes." 

He  was  back  again  in  twelve,  and  sat  down  opposite  to 
her.  There  were  boiled  eggs,  toast,  quince  jam  from 
Condaford,  and  real  coffee.  It  was  the  most  delicious  meal 
he  had  ever  eaten,  because  it  was  so  exactly  as  if  they  were 
married. 

"Aren't  you  tired,  darling?" 

"Not  a  bit.  I  feel  thoroughly  chirped  up.  All  the  same, 
I  don't  think  we  must  do  it  again — too  near  the  hambone 
altogether." 

"Well,  we  didn't  mean  to." 


148  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"No,  and  you  were  an  angel.  Still,  it's  not  exactly  what  I 
promised  Aunt  Em.  To  the  pure  all  things  are  not  pure." 

"No — blast  them!  Godl  How  shall  I  live  till  I  see  you 
againl" 

Clare  stretched  her  hand  across  the  little  table  and  gave 
his  a  squeeze. 

"Now  I  think  you'd  better  slip  off.  Just  let  me  look  out 
and  see  that  the  coast's  clear." 

When  she  had  done  this  he  kissed  her  hand,  got  back  to 
his  car,  and  by  eleven  o'clock  was  standing  alongside  a 
plumber  in  a  horse  box  at  Bablock  Hythe.  .  .  . 

Clare  lay  in  a  very  hot  bath.  It  was  of  the  geyser  type  and 
not  long  enough,  but  it  provided  a  good  soak.  She  felt  as 
when,  a  little  girl,  she  had  done  something  unpleasing  to 
her  governess,  without  discovery.  But  poor  dear  Tony!  A 
pity  men  were  so  impatient.  They  had  as  little  liking  for 
cool  philandering  as  for  shopping.  They  rushed  into  shops, 
said:  'Have  you  such  and  such?  No?'  and  rushed  out 
again.  They  hated  trying  on,  being  patted  here  and  there, 
turning  their  heads  to  look  at  their  back  views.  To  savour 
what  was  fitting  was  to  them  anathema.  Tony  was  a  child. 
She  felt  herself  much  older  by  nature  and  experience. 
Though  much  in  request  before  her  marriage,  Clare  had 
never  come  into  close  contact  with  those  who,  centred  in 
London  and  themselves,  were  devoid  of  belief  in  anything 
but  mockery,  motion  and  enough  money  to  have  from  day 
to  day  a  'good'  time.  At  country  houses  she  had  met  them, 
of  course,  but  withdrawn  from  their  proper  atmosphere 
into  the  air  of  sport.  Essentially  an  open-air  person,  of  the 
quick  and  wiry,  rather  than  the  hefty,  type,  she  observed 
unconsciously  the  shibboleths  of  sport.  Transplanted  to 
Ceylon,  she  had  kept  her  tastes,  and  spent  her  time  in  the 
saddle  or  on  the  tennis  ground.  Reading  many  novels,  she 
professed,  indeed,  to  keep  abreast  of  the  current,  with  all  its 
impatience  of  restraint;  but,  lying  in  her  bath,  she  was  un- 
easy. It  had  not  been  fair  to  put  Tony  to  such  strain  as  that 


OVER     THE     RIVER  149 

of  last  night.  The  closer  she  allowed  him  to  come  to  her, 
short  of  the  contacts  of  love,  the  more  she  would  be  tortur- 
ing him.  Drying  herself,  she  made  good  resolutions,  and 
only  with  a  rush  did  she  reach  the  Temple  by  ten  o'clock. 
She  might  just  as  well  have  stayed  on  soaking  in  her  bath, 
for  Dornford  was  busy  on  an  important  case.  She  finished 
what  jobs  there  were,  looking  idly  out  over  the  Temple 
lawn,  whence  fine-weather  mist  was  vanishing,  and 
sunlight,  brightening  to  winter  brilliance,  slanted  on  to  her 
cheek.  And  she  thought  of  Ceylon,  where  the  sun  was 
never  coolly  comforting.  Jerry!  How,  in  that  horrible, 
common  phrase,  was  he  'keeping?  And  what  doing  about 
her?  All  very  well  to  determine  that  she  would  not 
torture  Tony,  would  keep  away  from  him  and  spare  his 
senses,  but  without  him — she  would  be  dull  and  lonely. 
He  had  become  a  habit.  A  bad  habit  perhaps — but  bad 
habits  were  the  only  ones  it  was  painful  to  do  without. 

'I'm  naturally  a  light  weight,'  she  thought.  'So  is  Tony; 
all  the  same  he  would  never  let  one  down!' 

And  the  grass  of  the  Temple  lawn  seemed  suddenly  the 
sea,  and  this  window-sill  the  ship's  bulwark,  and  he  and  she 
leaned  there  watching  the  flying  fish  spring  up  from  the 
foam  and  flitter  away  above  the  green-blue  water.  Warmth 
and  colour!  Airy  shining  grace!  And  she  felt  melancholy. 

'A  good  long  ride  is  what  I  want,'  she  thought.  'I'll  go 
down  to  Condaford  to-morrow,  and  on  Saturday  be  out  all 
day.  I'll  make  Dinny  come  out  with  me;  she  ought  to  ride 
more.' 

The  clerk  entered  and  said:  "Mr.  Dornford's  going 
straight  from  the  Courts  to  the  'House'  this  afternoon." 

"Ah!  Do  you  ever  feel  hipped,  George?" 

The  clerk,  whose  face  always  amused  her  because  it  so 
clearly  should  have  had  mutton-chop  whiskers  on  its  rosy 
roundness,  replied  in  his  cushiony  voice: 

"What  I  miss  here  is  a  dog.  With  my  old  Toby  I  never 
feel  lonely." 


IJO  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"What  is  he,  George?" 

"Bull  terrier.  But  I  can't  bring  him  here,  Mrs.  Calder'd 
miss  him;  besides,  if  he  bit  a  solicitor " 

"But  how  perfectl" 

George  wheezed. 

"Ah!  you  can't  have  high  spirits  in  the  Temple." 

"I  should  have  liked  a  dog,  George,  but  when  I'm  out 
there's  no  one  in." 

"I  don't  fancy  Mr.  Dornford'll  be  residential  here  much 
longer." 

"Why?" 

"He's  looking  for  a  house.  I've  an  idea  he'd  like  to 
marry." 

"Ohl  Whom?" 

George  closed  an  eye. 

"You  mean  my  sister?" 

"Ah!" 

"Yes.  But  I  don't  see  how  you  know." 

George  closed  the  other  eye. 

"A  little  bird,  Lady  Corven." 

"He  might  do  worse,  certainly.  Not  that  I'm  a  great 
believer  in  marriage." 

"We  don't  see  the  right  side  of  marriage  in  the  Law. 
But  Mr.  Dornford  would  make  a  woman  happy — in  my 
opinion." 

"In  mine,  too,  George." 

"He's  a  very  quiet  man,  but  a  fund  of  energy,  and 
considerate.  Solicitors  like  him;  judges  like  him." 

"And  wives  will  like  him." 

"Of  course  he's  a  Catholic." 

"We  all  have  to  be  something." 

"Mrs.  Caldcr  and  I've  been  Anglicans  ever  since  my  old 
dad  died.  He  was  a  Plymouth  Brother — very  stiff.  Express 
an  opinion  of  your  own,  and  he'd  jump  down  your  throat. 
Many's  the  time  I've  had  him  threaten  me  with  fire  and 
slaughter.  All  for  my  good,  you  understand.  A  fine 


OVER     THE     RIVER  15! 

religious  old  feller.  And  couldn't  bear  others  not  to  be. 
Good  red  Zummerzet  blood,  and  never  forgot  it,  though 
he  did  live  in  Peckham." 

"Well,  George,  if  Mr.  Dornford  wants  me  again  after 
all,  would  you  telephone  me  at  five  o'clock?  I'll  look  in  at 
my  rooms  in  case." 

Clare  walked.  The  day  was  even  more  springlike  than 
yesterday.  She  went  by  the  Embankment  and  St.  James's 
Park.  Alongside  the  water,  clusters  of  daffodil  spikes  were 
pushing  up,  and  tree-shoots  swelling  into  bud.  The 
gentle,  warming  sunlight  fell  on  her  back.  It  couldn't  last! 
There  would  be  a  throw-back  to  winter,  for  sure!  She 
walked  fast  out  under  the  chariot,  whose  horses,  not  too 
natural,  worried  but  exhikrated  her,  passed  the  Artillery 
Memorial  without  a  glance,  and  entered  Hyde  Park. 
Warmed  up  now,  she  swung  out  along  the  Row.  Riding 
was  something  of  a  passion  with  her,  so  that  it  always 
made  her  restive  to  see  someone  else  riding  a  good  horse. 
Queer  animals,  horses,  so  fiery  and  alive  at  one  moment,  so 
dull  and  ruminative  the  next! 

Two  or  three  hats  were  raised  to  her.  A  long  man  on  a 
good-looking  mare  reined  up  after  he  had  passed  and  came 
back. 

"I  thought  it  was  you.  Lawrence  told  me  you  were 
over.  Remember  me — Jack  Muskham?" 

Clare — thinking:  'Lovely  seat  for  a  tall  man!' — mur- 
mured: "Of  course!"  and  was  suddenly  on  her  guard. 

"An  acquaintance  of  yours  is  going  to  look  after  my 
Arab  mares." 

"Oh!  yes,  Tony  Croom." 

"Nice  young  chap,  but  I  don't  know  if  he  knows 
enough.  Still,  he's  keen  as  mustard.  How's  your  sister?" 

"Very  well." 

"You  ought  to  bring  her  racing,  Lady  Corven." 

"I  don't  think  Dinny  cares  much  for  horses." 

"I  could  soon  make  her.  I  remember "  he  broke  off, 


152  OVER     THE     RIVER 

frowning.  In  spite  of  his  languid  pose,  his  face  seemed  to 
Clare  purposeful,  brown,  lined,  ironic  about  the  lips.  She 
wondered  how  he  would  take  the  news  that  she  had  spent 
last  night  with  Tony  in  a  car. 

"When  do  the  mares  come,  Mr.  Muskham?" 

"They're  in  Egypt  now.  We'll  ship  them  in  April.  I 
might  go  over  for  it;  possibly  take  young  Groom." 

"I'd  love  to  see  them,"  said  Clare;  "I  rode  an  Arab  in 
Ceylon." 

"We  must  get  you  down." 

"Somewhere  near  Oxford,  isn't  it?" 

"About  six  miles;  nice  country.  I'll  remember.  Good- 
bye!" He  raised  his  hat,  touched  the  mare  with  his  heel, 
and  cantered  off. 

'My  perfect  innocence!'  she  thought.  'Hope  I  didn't 
overdo  it.  I  wouldn't  like  to  'get  wrong'  with  him.  He 
looks  as  if  he  knew  his  mind  terribly  well.  Lovely  boots! 
He  didn't  ask  after  Jerry!' 

Her  nerves  felt  a  little  shaken,  and  she  struck  away  from 
the  Row  towards  the  Serpentine. 

The  sunlit  water  had  no  boats  on  it,  but  a  few  ducks 
on  the  far  side.  Did  she  mind  what  people  thought? 
Miller  of  Dee!  Only,  did  he  really  care  for  nobody?  Or 
was  he  just  a  philosopher?  She  sat  down  on  a  bench 
in  the  full  sunlight,  and  suddenly  felt  sleepy.  A  night  in  a 
car,  after  all,  was  not  quite  the  same  as  a  night  out  of  a  car. 
Crossing  her  arms  on  her  breast,  she  closed  her  eyes. 
Almost  at  once  she  was  asleep. 

Quite  a  number  of  people  straggled  past  between 
her  and  the  bright  water,  surprised  to  see  one  in  such 
nice  clothes  asleep  before  lunch.  Two  little  boys  carrying 
toy  aeroplanes  stopped  dead,  examining  her  dark  eye- 
lashes resting  on  her  cream-coloured  cheeks,  and  the 
little  twitchings  of  her  just  touched-up  lips.  Having 
a  French  governess,  they  were  'well-bred'  little  boys 
without  prospect  of  sticking  pins  into  her  or  uttering  a 


OVER     THE     RIVER  IJ3 

sudden  whoop.  But  she  seemed  to  have  no  hands,  her 
feet  were  crossed  and  tucked  under  her  chair,  and  her 
attitude  was  such  that  she  had  abnormally  long  thighs.  It 
was  interesting;  and  after  they  had  passed  one  of  them  kept 
turning  his  head  to  see  more  of  her. 

Thus,  for  a  full  hour  of  elusive  spring,  Clare  slept  the 
sleep  of  one  who  has  spent  a  night  in  a  car. 


CHAPTER  XX 

AND  three  weeks  passed,  during  which  Clare  saw  young 
Croom  but  four  times  in  all.  She  was  packing  for  the 
evening  train  to  Condaford,  when  the  sheep  bell  sum- 
moned her  down  the  spiral  stairway. 

Outside  was  a  shortish  man  in  horn  spectacles,  who  gave 
her  a  vague  impression  of  being  connected  with  learning. 
He  raised  his  hat. 

"Lady  Corven?" 

"Yes." 

"Pardon  me,  I  have  this  for  you."  Producing  from  his 
blue  overcoat  a  longish  document,  he  put  it  into  her  hand. 

dare  read  the  words: 

"In  the  High  Court  of  Justice 

Probate  Divorce  and  Admiralty  Division. 
The  Twenty-sixth  day  of  February,  1932. 
In  the  Matter  of  the  Petition  of  Sir  Gerald  Corven." 

A  weak  feeling  ran  down  the  back  of  her  legs,  and  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  the  level  of  those  behind  the  horn- 
rimmed spectacles. 

"OhI"  she  said. 

The  shortish  man  made  her  a  little  bow.  She  had  a 
feeling  that  he  was  sorry  for  her,  and  promptly  closed  the 
door  in  his  face.  She  went  up  the  spiral  stairs,  sat  down  on 
the  sofa,  and  lit  a  cigarette.  Then  she  spread  the  document 
on  her  lap.  Her  first  thought  was:  'But  it's  monstrous — 
I've  done  nothing!'  Her  second:  *I  suppose  I  must  read  the 
foul  thing  1' 

She  had  not  read  more  than:  'The  humble  petition  of 
Gerald  Corven,  K.C.B.,'  when  she  had  her  fourth  thought: 
'But  this  is  exactly  what  I  want.  I  shall  be  free!' 


OVER     THE     RIVER  155 

More  calmly  she  read  on  till  she  came  to  the  words: 
'That  your  Petitioner  claims  from  the  said  James  Bernard 
Groom  as  damages  in  respect  of  his  said  adultery  so 
committed  the  sum  of  two  thousand  pounds/ 

Tony  I  If  he  had  two  thousand  shillings,  it  was  all! 
Beastl  Revengeful  brutcl  This  sudden  reduction  of  the 
issue  to  terms  of  hard  cash  not  only  rasped  her  feelings  but 
brought  her  a  sort  of  panic.  Tony  must  not,  should  not  be 
ruined  through  herl  She  must  see  himl  Had  they — but  of 
course  they  had  served  it  on  him  too. 

She  finished  reading  the  petition,  took  a  long  draw  at  her 
cigarette  and  got  up. 

She  went  to  the  telephone,  asked  for  a  trunk  call  and 
gave  the  number  of  his  inn. 

"Can  I  speak  to  Mr.  Groom? — Gone  up  to  London? — In 
his  car?— When?" 

An  hour  ago!  That  could  only  mean  that  he  was  coming 
to  see  her! 

A  little  soothed,  she  made  a  rapid  calculation.  She 
could  not  now  catch  the  train  to  Condaford;  and  she  got 
another  trunk  call  through  to  the  Grange. 

"Dinny?  This  is  Clare.  I  can't  possibly  get  down 
to-night — to-morrow  morning  instead.  .  .  .  No!  I'm  all 
right;  a  little  worried.  Good-bye!" 

A  little  worried!  She  sat  down  again,  and  once  more 
read  the  'foul  thing*  through.  They  seemed  to  know 
everything,  except  the  truth.  And  neither  she  nor  Tony 
had  ever  seen  a  sign  that  they  were  being  watched.  That 
man  with  the  horn  'specs,'  for  instance,  evidently  knew  her, 
but  she'd  never  seen  him  before!  She  went  into  the  bath- 
room and  washed  her  face  in  cold  water.  Miller  of  Dee! 
The  part  had  become  extremely  difficult. 

'He'll  have  had  nothing  to  eat,'  she  thought. 

She  set  the  table  downstairs  with  what  she  had,  made 
some  coffee,  and  sat  down  to  smoke  and  wait.  Condaford 
and  the  faces  of  her  people  came  before  her;  the  face,  too 


156  OVER     THE     RIVER 

of  Aunt  Em;  and  of  Jack  Muskham;  above  all  the  face  of 
her  husband,  with  its  faint,  hard-bitten,  cat-like  smile. 
Was  she  to  take  this  lying  down?  Apart  from  the  damages, 
was  she  to  let  him  triumph  without  a  fight?  She  wished 
now  she  had  taken  her  father's  and  Sir  Lawrence's  advice 
and  'clapped  a  detective  on  to  him.'  Too  late  now — he 
would  be  taking  no  risks  till  the  case  was  over. 

She  was  still  brooding  by  the  electric  fire  when  she 
heard  a  car  stop  outside,  and  the  bell  rang. 

Young  Groom  looked  chilled  and  pale.  He  stood  as  if  so 
doubtful  of  his  welcome  that  she  sei2ed  both  his  hands. 

"Well,  Tony,  this  is  pleasant!" 

"Oh!  darling!" 

"You  look  frozen.  Have  some  brandyl" 

While  he  was  drinking,  she  said: 

"Don't  let's  talk  of  what  we  ought  to  have  done;  only  of 
what  we're  going  to  do." 

He  groaned. 

"They  must  have  thought  us  terribly  green.  I  never 
dreamed " 

"Nor  I.  But  why  shouldn't  we  have  done  exactly  what 
we  have  done?  There's  no  law  against  innocence." 

He  sat  down  and  leaned  his  forehead  on  his  hands.  "God 
knows  this  is  just  what  I  want;  to  get  you  free  of  him;  but  I 
had  no  business  to  let  you  run  the  risk.  It  would  be  all 
different  if  you  felt  for  me  what  I  feel  for  you." 

Clare  looked  down  at  him  with  a  little  smile. 

"Now,  Tony,  be  grown-up!  It's  no  good  talking  about 
our  feelings.  And  I  won't  have  any  nonsense  about  its 
being  your  fault.  The  point  is  we're  innocent.  What  are 
we  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"Of  course  I  shall  do  whatever  you  want." 

"I  have  a  feeling,"  said  Clare,  slowly,  "that  I  shall  have 
to  do  what  my  people  want  me  to." 

"God!"  said  young  Croom,  getting  up:  "To  think  that 
if  we  defend  and  win,  you'll  still  be  tied  to  him!" 


OVER     THE     RIVER  157 

"And  to  think,"  murmured  Clare,  "that  if  we  don't 
defend  and  win,  you'll  be  ruined." 

"Oh!  Damn  that — they  can  only  make  me  bankrupt." 

"And  your  job?" 

"I  don't  see — I  don't  know  why " 

"I  saw  Jack  Muskham  the  other  day.  He  looks  to  me  as 
if  he  wouldn't  like  a  co-respondent  who  hadn't  given 
notice  of  his  intentions  to  the  petitioner.  You  see  I've  got 
the  jargon." 

"If  we  bad  been  lovers,  I  would  have,  at  once." 

"Would  you?" 

"Of  course!" 

"Even  if  I'd  said  'Don't'?" 

"You  wouldn't  have." 

"I  don't  know  that." 

"Well,  anyway,  it  doesn't  arise." 

"Except  that  if  we  don't  defend,  you'll  feel  a  cad." 

"God!  What  a  coH!" 

"Sit  down  and  let's  eat.  There's  only  this  ham,  but 
there's  nothing  like  ham  when  you  feel  sick." 

They  sat  down  and  made  motions  with  their  forks. 

"Your  people  don't  know,  Clare?" 

"I  only  knew  myself  an  hour  ago.  Did  they  bring  you 
this  same  lovely  document?" 

"Yes." 

"Another  slice?" 

They  ate  in  silence  for  a  minute  or  two.  Then  young 
Croom  got  up. 

"I  really  can't  eat  any  more." 

"All  right.  Smoke!" 

She  took  a  cigarette  from  him,  and  said: 

"Listen.  I'm  going  down  to  Condaford  to-morrow,  and 
I  think  you'd  better  come  over.  They  must  see  you, 
because  whatever's  done  must  be  done  with  open  eyes. 
Have  you  a  solicitor?" 

"No." 


158  OVERTHERIVER 

"Nor  I.  I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  have  one." 

"I'll  see  to  all  that.  If  only  I  had  money!" 

Clare  winced. 

"I  apologise  for  a  husband  capable  of  asking  for 
damages." 

Young  Groom  seized  her  hand.  "Darling,  I  was  only 
thinking  of  solicitors." 

"Do  you  remember  my  answering  you  on  the  boat: 
'Often  more  damnable,  things  beginning.'  " 

'Til  never  admit  that." 

"I  was  thinking  of  my  marriage,  not  of  you." 

"Clare,  wouldn't  it  be  far  better,  really,  not  to  defend — 
just  let  it  go?  Then  you'd  be  free.  And  after — if  you 
wanted  me,  I'd  be  there,  and  if  you  didn't,  I  wouldn't." 

"Sweet  of  you,  Tony;  but  I  must  tell  my  people.  Besides 
— oh!  a  lot  of  things." 

He  began  walking  up  and  down. 

"D'you  suppose  they'll  believe  us  if  we  do  defend?  I 
don't." 

"We  shall  be  telling  the  exact  truth." 

"People  never  believe  the  exact  truth.  What  train  are 
you  going  down  by?" 

"Ten-fifty." 

"Shall  I  come  too,  or  in  the  afternoon  from  Bablock 
Hythe?" 

''That's  best.  I'll  have  broken  it  to  them." 

"Will  they  mind  frightfully?" 

"They  won't  like  it." 

"Is  your  sister  there?" 

"Yes." 

"That's  something." 

"My  people  are  not  exactly  old-fashioned,  Tony,  but 
they're  not  modern.  Very  few  people  are  when  they're 
personally  involved.  The  lawyers  and  the  judge  and  jury 
won't  be,  anyway.  You'd  better  go  now;  and  promise  me 
not  to  drive  like  Jehu." 


OVER     THE     RIVER  159 

"May  I  kiss  you?" 

"It'll  mean  one  more  piece  of  exact  truth,  and  thereVe 
been  three  already.  Kiss  my  hand — that  doesn't  count." 

He  kissed  it,  muttered:  "God  bless  youl"  and,  grabbing 
his  hat,  went  out. 

Clare  turned  a  chair  to  the  unwinking  warmth  of  the 
electric  fire,  and  sat  brooding.  The  dry  heat  burned  her 
eyes  till  they  felt  as  if  they  had  no  lids  and  no  capacity  for 
moisture;  slowly  and  definitely  she  grew  angrier.  All  the 
feelings  she  had  experienced,  before  she  made  up  her  mind 
that  morning  in  Ceylon  to  cut  adrift,  came  back  to  her  with 
redoubled  fury.  How  dared  he  treat  her  as  if  she  had  been  a 
'light  of  love? — worse  than  if  she  had  been  one — a  light  of 
love  would  never  have  stood  it.  How  dared  he  touch  her 
with  that  whip?  And  now  how  dared  he  have  her  watched, 
and  bring  this  case?  She  would  not  lie  down  under  thisl 

She  began  methodically  to  wash  up  and  put  the  things 
away.  She  opened  the  door  wide  and  let  the  wind  come  in. 
A  nasty  night,  little  whirlwinds  travelling  up  and  down  the 
narrow  Mewsl 

'Inside  me,  too,'  she  thought.  Slamming-to  the  door, 
she  took  out  her  little  mirror.  Her  face  seemed  so  natural 
and  undefended  that  it  gave  her  a  shock.  She  powdered  it 
and  touched  her  lips  with  salve.  Then,  drawing  deep 
breaths,  she  shrugged  her  shoulders,  lit  a  cigarette,  and 
went  upstairs.  A  hot  bath! 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  atmosphere  at  Condaford  into  which  she  stepped  next 
day  was  guarded.  Her  words,  or  the  tone  of  her  voice  on 
the  telephone,  seemed  to  have  seeped  into  the  family 
consciousness,  and  she  was  aware  at  once  that  sprightliness 
would  deceive  no  one.  It  was  a  horrible  day,  too,  dank  and 
cold,  and  she  had  to  hold  on  to  her  courage  with  both 
hands. 

She  chose  the  drawing-room  after  lunch  for  disclosure. 
Taking  the  document  from  her  bag,  she  handed  it  to  her 
father  with  the  words: 

"I've  had  this,  Dad." 

She  heard  his  startled  exclamation,  and  was  conscious  of 
Dinny  and  her  mother  going  over  to  him. 

At  last  he  said:  "Well?  Tell  us  the  truth." 

She  took  her  foot  off  the  fender  and  faced  them. 

"That  isn't  the  truth.  We've  done  nothing." 

"Who  is  this  man?" 

"Tony  Groom?  I  met  him  on  the  boat  coming  home. 
He's  twenty-six,  was  on  a  tea  plantation  out  there,  and  is 
taking  charge  of  Jack  Muskham's  Arab  mares  at  Bablock 
Hythe.  He  has  no  money.  I  told  him  to  come  here  this 
afternoon." 

"Are  you  in  love  with  him?" 

"No.  I  like  him." 

"Is  he  in  love  with  you?" 

"Yes." 

"You  say  there's  been  nothing?" 

"He's  kissed  my  cheek  twice,  I  think — that's  all." 

"Then  what  do  they  mean  by  this — that  you  spent  the 
night  of  the  third  with  him?" 

"I  went  down  in  his  car  to  see  his  place,  and  coming  back 
160 


OVERTHERIVER  l6l 

the  lights  failed  in  a  wood  about  five  miles  from  Henley — 
pitch  dark.  I  suggested  we  should  stay  where  we  were  till 
it  was  light.  We  just  slept  and  went  on  up  when  it  was 
light." 

She  heard  her  mother  give  a  faint  gasp,  and  a  queer  noise 
from  her  father's  throat. 

"And  on  the  boat?  And  in  your  rooms?  You  say  there 
was  nothing,  though  he's  in  love  with  you?" 

"Nothing." 

"Is  that  absolutely  the  truth?" 

"Yes." 

"Of  course,"  said  Dinny,  "it's  the  truth." 

"Of  course,"  said  the  General.  "And  who's  going  to 
believe  it?" 

"We  didn't  know  we  were  being  watched." 

"What  time  will  he  be  here?" 

"Any  time  now." 

"You've  seen  him  since  you  had  this?" 

"Yesterday  evening." 

"What  does  he  say?" 

"He  says  he'll  do  whatever  I  wish." 

"That,  of  course.  Does  he  think  you'll  be  believed?" 

"No." 

The  General  took  the  document  over  to  the  window,  as  if 
the  better  to  see  into  it.  Lady  Charwell  sat  down,  her  face 
very  white.  Dinny  came  over  to  Clare  and  took  her  arm. 

"When  he  comes,"  said  the  General  suddenly,  returning 
from  the  window,  "I'll  see  him  alone.  Nobody  before  me, 
please." 

"Witnesses  out  of  court,"  murmured  Clare. 

The  General  handed  her  the  document.  His  face  looked 
drawn  and  tired. 

"I'm  terribly  sorry,  Dad.  I  suppose  we  were  fools. 
Virtue  is  not  its  own  reward." 

"Wisdom  is,"  said  the  General.  He  touched  her 
shoulder  and  marched  off  to  the  door,  followed  by  Dinny. 


l6l  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Does  he  believe  me,  Mother?" 

"Yes,  but  only  because  you're  his  daughter.  He  feels  he 
oughtn't  to." 

"Do  you  feel  like  that,  Mother?" 

"I  believe  you  because  I  know  you." 

Clare  bent  over  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

"Very  pretty,  Mother  dear;  but  not  cheering." 

"You  say  you  like  this  young  man.  Did  you  know  him 
out  there?" 

"I  never  saw  him  till  the  boat.  And,  Mother,  I  may  as 
well  tell  you  that  I've  not  been  in  the  mood  for  passion.  I 
don't  know  when  I  shall  be  again.  Perhaps  neverl" 

"Why  not?" 

Clare  shook  her  head.  "I  won't  go  into  my  life  with 
Jerry,  not  even  now,  when  he's  been  such  a  cad  as  to  ask 
for  damages.  I'm  really  much  more  upset  about  that  than  I 
am  about  myself." 

"I  suppose  this  young  man  would  have  gone  away  with 
you,  at  any  moment?" 

"Yes;  but  I  haven't  wanted  to.  Besides,  I  gave  Aunt  Em 
a  promise.  I  sort  of  swore  to  behave  for  a  year.  And  I  have 
— so  far.  It's  terribly  tempting  not  to  defend,  and  be  free." 

Lady  CharweU  was  silent. 

"Well,  Mother?" 

"Your  father  is  bound  to  think  of  this  as  it  affects  your 
name  and  the  family's." 

"Six  of  one  and  half-a-dozen  of  the  other,  so  far  as 
that  goes.  If  we  don't  defend,  it  will  just  go  through  and 
hardly  be  noticed.  If  we  do,  it  will  make  a  sensation. 
'Night  in  a  car,'  and  all  that,  even  if  we're  believed. 
Can't  you  see  the  papers,  Mummy?  They'll  be  all  over  it." 

"I  think,"  said  Lady  Charwell  slowly,  "it  will  come  back 
in  the  end  to  the  feeling  your  father  has  about  that  whip. 
I've  never  known  him  so  angry  as  he  was  over  that.  I 
think  he  will  feel  you  must  defend." 

"I  should  never  mention  the  whip  in  court.    It's  too 


OVER     THE     RIVER  163 

easily  denied,  for  one  thing;  and  I  have  some  pride, 
Mother  .  .  ." 

Dinny  had  followed  to  the  study,  or  barrack-room,  as  it 
was  sometimes  called. 

"You  know  this  young  man,  Dinny?"  burst  out  the 
General. 

"Yes,  and  I  like  him.  He  is  deeply  in  love  with  Clare." 

"What  business  has  he  to  be?" 

"Be  human,  dearl" 

"You  believe  her  about  the  car?" 

"Yes.  I  heard  her  solemnly  promise  Aunt  Em  to  behave 
for  a  year." 

"Queer  sort  of  thing  to  have  to  promisel" 

"A  mistake,  if  you  ask  me." 

"What!" 

"The  only  thing  that  really  matters  is  that  Clare  should 
get  free." 

The  General  stood  with  head  bent,  as  if  he  had  found 
food  for  thought;  a  slow  flush  had  coloured  his  cheek- 
bones. 

"She  told  you,"  he  said  suddenly,  "what  she  told  me, 
about  that  fellow  having  used  a  whip  on  her?" 

Dinny  nodded. 

"In  old  days  I  could  and  would  have  called  him  out  for 
that.  I  agree  that  she  must  get  free,  but — not  this  way." 

"Then  you  do  believe  her?" 

"She  wouldn't  tell  a  lie  to  us  all  like  that." 

"Good,  DadI  But  who  else  will  believe  them?  Would 
you,  on  a  jury?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  General,  glumly. 

Dinny  shook  her  head.  "You  wouldn't." 

"Lawyers  are  damned  clever.  I  suppose  Dornford 
wouldn't  take  up  a  case  like  this?" 

"He  doesn't  practise  in  the  Divorce  Court.  Besides, 
she's  his  secretary." 

"I  must  get  to  hear  what  Kingsons  say.    Lawrence 


164  OVER     THE     RIVER 

believes  in  them.  Fleur's  father  was  a  member  there." 

"Then "  Dinny  had  begun,  when  the  door  was 

opened. 

"Mr.  Groom,  sir." 

"You  needn't  go,  Dinny." 

Young  Groom  came  in.  After  a  glance  at  Dinny,  he 
moved  towards  the  General. 

"Clare  told  me  to  come  over,  sir." 

The  General  nodded.  His  narrowed  eyes  were  fixed 
steadily  on  his  daughter's  would-be  lover.  The  young  man 
faced  that  scrutiny  as  if  on  parade,  his  eyes  replying  to  the 
General's  without  defiance. 

"I  won't  beat  about  the  bush,"  said  the  General 
suddenly.  "You  seem  to  have  got  my  daughter  into  a 
mess." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Kindly  give  me  your  account  of  it." 

Young  Groom  put  his  hat  down  on  the  table,  and, 
squaring  his  shoulders,  said: 

"Whatever  she  has  told  you  is  true,  sir." 

Dinny  saw  with  relief  her  father's  lips  twitching  as  if 
with  a  smile. 

"Very  correct,  Mr.  Groom;  but  not  what  I  want.  She 
has  told  me  her  version;  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  yours." 

She  saw  the  young  man  moisten  his  lips,  making  a 
curious  jerking  motion  of  his  head. 

"I'm  in  love  with  her,  sir:  have  been  ever  since  I  first 
saw  her  on  the  boat.  We've  been  going  about  rather  in 
London — cinemas,  theatres,  picture  galleries,  and  that;  and 
I've  been  to  her  rooms  three — no,  five  times  altogether. 
On  February  the  third  I  drove  her  down  to  Bablock 
Hythe  for  her  to  see  where  I'm  going  to  have  my  job;  and 
coming  back — I  expect  she  told  you — my  lights  failed,  and 
we  were  hung  up  in  a  pitch-dark  wood  some  miles  short  of 
Henley.  Well — we — we  thought  we'd  better  just  stay 
there  until  it  was  light  again,  instead  of  risking  things. 


OVERTHERIVER  165 

I'd  got  off  the  road  twice.  It  really  was  pitch-black,  and  I 
had  no  torch.  And  so — well,  we  waited  in  the  car  till  about 
half-past  six,  and  then  came  up,  and  got  to  her  place  about 
eight."  He  paused  and  moistened  his  lips,  then  straight- 
ened himself  again  and  said  with  a  rush:  "Whether  you 
believe  me  or  not,  sir,  I  swear  there  was  nothing  whatever 
between  us  in  the  car;  and — and  there  never  has  been, 
except — except  that  she's  let  me  kiss  her  cheek  two  or  three 
times." 

The  General,  who  had  never  dropped  his  eyes,  said: 
"That's  substantially  what  she  told  us.  Anything  else?" 

"After  I  had  that  paper,  sir,  I  motored  up  to  see  her  at 
once — that  was  yesterday.  Of  course  I'll  do  anything  she 
wants." 

"You  didn't  put  your  heads  together  as  to  what  you 
would  say  to  us?" 

Dinny  saw  the  young  man  stiffen. 

"Of  course  not,  sir!" 

"Then  I  may  take  it  that  you're  ready  to  swear  there's 
been  nothing,  and  defend  the  action?" 

"Certainly,  if  you  think  there's  any  chance  of  our  being 
believed." 

The  General  shrugged.  "What's  your  financial 
position?" 

"Four  hundred  a  year  from  my  job."  A  faint  smile 
curled  his  lips:  "Otherwise  none,  sir." 

"Do  you  know  my  daughter's  husband?" 

"No." 

"Never  met  him?" 

"No,  sir." 

"When  did  you  first  meet  Clare?" 

"On  the  second  day  of  the  voyage  home." 

"What  were  you  doing  out  there?" 

"Tea-planting;  but  they  amalgamated  my  plantation  with 
some  others,  for  economy." 

"I  see.  Where  were  you  at  school?" 


l66  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Wellington,  and  then  at  Cambridge." 

"You've  got  a  job  with  Jack  Muskham?" 

"Yes,  sir,  his  Arab  mares.  They're  due  in  the  spring." 

"You  know  about  horses,  then?" 

"Yes.  I'm  terribly  fond  of  them." 

Dinny  saw  the  narrowed  gaze  withdraw  from  the  young 
man's  face,  and  come  to  rest  on  hers. 

"You  know  my  daughter  Dinny,  I  think?" 

"Yes." 

"I'll  leave  you  to  her  now.  I  want  to  think  this  over." 

The  young  man  bowed  slightly,  turned  to  Dinny,  and 
then,  turning  back,  said  with  a  certain  dignity: 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  sir,  about  this;  but  I  can't  say  I'm 
sorry  that  I'm  in  love  with  Ckre.  It  wouldn't  be  true.  I 
love  her  terribly." 

He  was  moving  towards  the  door,  when  the  General  said: 

"One  moment.  What  do  you  mean  by  love?" 

Involuntarily  Dinny  clasped  her  hands:  An  appalling 
question!  Young  Groom  turned  round.  His  face  was 
motionless. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  sir,"  he  said  huskily:  "Desire 
and  that,  or  more?  Welll  More,  or  I  couldn't  have  stood 
that  night  in  the  car."  He  turned  again  to  the  door. 

Dinny  moved  and  held  it  open  for  him.  She  followed 
him  into  the  hall,  where  he  was  frowning  and  taking  deep 
breaths.  She  slipped  her  hand  through  his  arm  and  moved 
him  across  to  the  wood  fire.  They  stood,  looking  down 
into  the  flames,  till  she  said: 

"I'm  afraid  that  was  rather  dreadful.  But  soldiers  like  to 
have  things  straight  out,  you  know.  Anyway — I  know  my 
father — you  made  what's  called  a  good  impression." 

"I  felt  a  ghastly  kind  of  wooden  idiot.  Where  is  Ckre? 
Here?" 

"Yes." 

"Can  I  see  her,  Miss  CherreU?" 

"Try  calling  me  Dinny.   You  can  sec  her;  but  I  think 


OVER     THE     RIVER  l6j 

you'd  better  see  my  mother  too.  Let's  go  to  the  drawing- 
room." 

He  gave  her  hand  a  squeeze. 

"I've  always  felt  you  were  a  brick." 

Dinny  grimaced.  "Even  bricks  yield  to  a  certain 
pressure." 

"Ohl  sorryl  I'm  always  forgetting  my  ghastly  grip. 
Clare  dreads  it.  How  is  she?" 

With  a  faint  shrug  and  smile,  Dinny  said: 

"Doing  as  well  as  can  be  expected." 

Tony  Groom  clutched  his  head. 

"Yes,  I  feel  exactly  like  that,  only  worse;  in  those  cases 
there's  something  to  look  forward  to  and — here?  D'you 
think  she'll  ever  really  love  me?" 

"I  hope  so." 

"Your  people  don't  think  that  I  pursued  her — I  mean, 
you  know  what  I  mean,  just  to  have  a  good  time?" 

"They  won't  after  to-day.  You  are  what  I  was  once 
called — transparent." 

"You?  I  never  quite  know  what  you're  thinking." 

"That  was  a  long  time  ago.  Gomel" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WHEN  young  Groom  had  withdrawn  into  the  sleet  and 
wind  of  that  discomforting  day,  he  left  behind  him  a 
marked  gloom.  Clare  went  to  her  room  saying  her  head 
was  bad  and  she  was  going  to  lie  down.  The  other  three 
sat  among  the  tea-things,  speaking  only  to  the  dogs,  sure 
sign  of  mental  disturbance. 

At  last  Dinny  got  up:  "Well,  my  dears,  gloom  doesn't 
help.  Let's  look  on  the  bright  side.  They  might  have  been 
scarlet  instead  of  white  as  snow." 

The  General  said,  more  to  himself  than  in  reply: 

"They  must  defend.  That  fellow  can't  have  it  all  his  own 
way." 

"But,  Dad,  to  have  Clare  free,  with  a  perfectly  clear  con- 
science, would  be  nice  and  ironic,  and  ever  so  much  less  fuss!" 

"Lie  down  under  an  accusation  of  that  sort?" 

"Her  name  will  go  even  if  she  wins.  No  one  can  spend  a 
night  in  a  car  with  a  young  man  with  impunity.  Can  they, 
Mother?" 

Lady  Charwell  smiled  faintly. 

"I  agree  with  your  father,  Dinny.  It  seems  to  me 
revolting  that  Clare  should  be  divorced  when  she's  done 
nothing  except  been  a  little  foolish.  Besides,  it  would  be 
cheating  the  law,  wouldn't  it?" 

"I  shouldn't  think  the  law  would  care,  dear.  However — 1" 
And  Dinny  was  silent,  scrutinising  their  rueful  faces,  aware 
that  they  set  some  mysterious  store  by  marriage  and 
divorce  which  she  did  not,  and  that  nothing  she  could  say 
would  alter  it. 

"The  young  man,"  said  the  General,  "seemed  a  decent 
fellow,  I  thought.  He'll  have  to  come  up  and  see  the 
lawyers  when  we  do." 

168 


OVER     THE     RIVER  169 

"I'd  better  go  up  with  Clare  to-morrow  evening,  Dad, 
and  get  Uncle  Lawrence  to  arrange  you  a  meeting  with  the 
lawyers  for  after  lunch  on  Monday.  I'll  telephone  you  and 
Tony  Groom  from  Mount  Street  in  the  morning." 

The  General  nodded  and  got  up.  "Beast  of  a  dayl"  he 
said,  and  put  his  hand  on  his  wife's  shoulder:  "Don't  let 
this  worry  you,  Li2.  They  can  but  tell  the  truth.  I'll  go  to 
the  study  and  have  another  shot  at  that  new  pigsty.  You 
might  look  in  later,  Dinny  .  .  ." 

At  all  critical  times  Dinny  felt  more  at  home  in  Mount 
Street  than  she  did  at  Condaford.  Sir  Lawrence's  mind  was 
so  much  more  lively  than  her  father's;  Aunt  Em's  in- 
consequence at  once  more  bracing  and  more  soothing  than 
her  mother's  quiet  and  sensible  sympathy.  When  a  crisis 
was  over,  or  if  it  had  not  begun,  Condaford  was  perfect, 
but  it  was  too  quiet  for  nerve  storms  or  crucial  action.  As 
country  houses  went,  it  was,  indeed,  old-fashioned, 
inhabited  by  the  only  county  family  who  had  been  in  the 
district  for  more  than  three  or  four  generations.  The 
Grange  had  an  almost  institutional  repute.  "Condaford 
Grange"  and  "the  Cherrells  of  Condaford"  were  spoken  of 
as  curiosities.  The  week-ending  or  purely  sporting  exist- 
ence of  the  big  'places'  was  felt  to  be  alien  to  them.  The 
many  families  in  the  smaller  'places'  round  seemed  to  make 
country  life  into  a  sort  of  cult,  organising  tennis  and  bridge 
parties,  village  entertainments,  and  the  looking  of  each 
other  up;  getting  their  day's  shooting  here  and  there, 
supporting  the  nearest  golf  course,  attending  meets, 
hunting  a  bit>  and  so  forth.  The  Charwells,  with  their  much 
deeper  roots,  yet  seemed  to  be  less  in  evidence  than  almost 
anyone.  They  would  have  been  curiously  missed,  but, 
except  to  the  villagers,  they  hardly  seemed  real. 

In  spite  of  her  always  active  life  at  Condaford  Dinny 
often  felt  there,  as  one  does  waking  in  the  still  hours  of 
the  night,  nervous  from  the  very  quietude;  and  in  such 


170  OVER     THE     RIVER 

troubles  as  Hubert's,  three  years  before,  her  own  crisis  of 
two  years  ago,  or  this  of  Clare's,  she  craved  at  once  to  be 
more  in  the  swim  of  life. 

Having  dropped  Clare  at  her  Mews,  she  went  on  in  the 
taxi,  and  arrived  at  Mount  Street  before  dinner. 

Michael  and  Fleur  were  there,  and  the  conversation 
turned  and  turned  from  literature  to  politics.  Michael  was 
of  opinion  that  the  papers  were  beginning  to  pat  the 
country's  back  too  soon,  and  that  the  Government  might 
go  to  sleep.  Sir  Lawrence  was  glad  to  hear  that  they  were 
still  awake. 

Lady  Mont  said  suddenly:   "The  baby,  Dinny?" 

"Frightfully  well,  thank  you,  Aunt  Em.  He  walks." 

"I  was  countin'  up  the  pedigree,  and  he  makes  the 
twenty-fourth  Cherrell  of  Condaford;  and  before  that  they 
were  French.  Is  Jean  havin'  any  more?" 

"You  bet,"  said  Fleur.  "I  never  saw  a  young  woman 
more  like  it." 

"There'll  be  nothin'  for  them." 

"Oh,  she'll  wangle  their  futures  all  right." 

"Such  a  singular  word,"  said  Lady  Mont. 

"Dinny,  how's  Clare?" 

"All  right." 

"Any  developments?"  And  Fleur's  clear  eyes  seemed  to 
slide  into  her  brain. 

"Yes,  but " 

Michael's  voice  broke  the  silence. 

"Dornford  has  a  very  neat  idea,  Dad;  he  thinks " 

The  neat  idea  of  Dornford  was  lost  on  Dinny,  wondering 
whether  or  not  to  take  Fleur  into  her  confidence.  She  knew 
no  one  of  quicker  brain,  or  of  a  judgment  on  social 
matters  more  cynically  sound.  Further,  she  could  keep  a 
secret.  But  it  was  Clare's  secret,  and  she  decided  to  speak 
to  Sir  Lawrence  first. 

Late  that  night  she  did  so.  He  received  the  news  with  his 
eyebrows. 


OVER     THE     RIVER  17! 

"All  night  in  a  car,  Dinny?  That's  a  bit  steep.  I'll  get  on 
to  the  lawyers  at  ten  o'clock  to-morrow.  'Very  young' 
Roger  Forsyte,  Fleur's  cousin,  is  there  now;  I'll  get  hold  of 
him,  he's  likely  to  have  more  credulity  than  the  hoarier 
members.  You  and  I  will  go  along  too,  to  prove  our  faith." 

"I've  never  been  in  the  Qty." 

"Curious  place;  built  upon  the  ends  of  the  earth. 
Romance  and  the  bank  rate.  Prepare  for  a  mild  shock." 

"Do  you  think  they  ought  to  defend?" 

Sir  Lawrence's  lively  eyes  came  to  rest  on  her  face. 

"If  you  ask  me  whether  I  think  they'll  be  believed — no. 
But  at  least  we  can  divide  opinion  on  the  question." 

"You  do  believe  them  yourself,  don't  you?" 

"I  plank  on  you  there,  Dinny.  Clare  wouldn't  try  to  take 
you  in." 

Thinking  back  to  her  sister's  face,  and  to  young  Groom's, 
Dinny  had  a  revulsion  of  feeling.  "They  are  telling  the 
truth,  and  they  look  like  it.  It  would  be  wicked  not  to 
believe  them." 

"No  end  to  that  sort  of  wickedness  in  this  wicked  world. 
You  look  tired,  my  dear;  better  go  to  bed." 

In  that  bedroom,  where  she  had  spent  so  many  nights  at 
the  time  of  her  own  trouble,  Dinny  had  again  that  half- 
waking  nightmare,  the  sense  of  being  close  to  Wilfrid  and 
unable  to  reach  him,  and  the  refrain:  'One  more  river,  one 
more  river  to  cross,'  kept  running  in  her  tired  head.  .  .  . 

In  that  quiet  and  yellow  backwater,  the  Old  Jewry,  the 
offices  of  Kingson  Cuthcott  and  Forsyte  were  tribally 
invaded  at  four  o'clock  next  day. 

"What's  become  of  old  Gradman,  Mr.  Forsyte?"  Dinny 
heard  her  uncle  say.  "Still  here?" 

'Very  young'  Roger  Forsyte,  who  was  forty-two, 
answered,  in  a  voice  which  seemed  to  contradict  his  jaw: 
"I  believe  he's  still  living  at  Pinner,  or  Highgate,  or 
wherever  it  was." 


172  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"I  should  be  glad  to  think  so,"  murmured  Sir  Lawrence. 
"Old  For — er,  your  cousin  thought  a  lot  of  him.  A 
regular  Victorian  piece." 

'Very  young*  Roger  smiled.   "Won't  you  all  sit  down?" 

Dinny,  who  had  never  yet  been  in  a  lawyer's  office, 
looked  at  the  law  books  along  the  walls,  the  bundles  of 
papers,  the  yellowish  blind,  the  repellent  black  fireplace 
with  its  little  coal  fire  that  seemed  to  warm  nothing,  the 
map  of  an  estate  hanging  unrolled  behind  the  door,  the  low 
wicker  basket  on  the  table,  the  pens  and  sealing-wax,  and 
Very  young'  Roger,  and  thought  of  an  album  of  seaweed, 
compiled  by  her  first  governess.  She  saw  her  father  rise 
and  place  a  document  in  the  solicitor's  hands. 

"We've  come  about  this." 

'Very  young'  Roger  glanced  at  the  heading  of  the  paper 
and  over  it  at  Clare. 

'How  does  he  know  which  of  us  it  is?'  thought  Dinny. 

"There's  no  truth  in  the  allegations,"  said  the  General. 

'Very  young'  Roger  caressed  his  jaw  and  began  reading. 

Dinny,  from  the  side,  could  see  that  a  sharp  and  rather 
bird-like  look  had  come  on  his  face. 

Noticing  that  Dinny  could  see  him,  he  lowered  the  paper 
and  said:  "They  seem  in  a  hurry.  The  petitioner  signed 
the  affidavit  in  Egypt,  I  see.  He  must  have  come  over  there 
to  save  time.  Mr.  Groom?" 

"Yes." 

"You  wish  us  to  represent  you  as  well?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  Lady  Corven  and  you.  Later,  perhaps,  Sir 
Conway,  you'd  come  in  again." 

"Do  you  mind  if  my  sister  stays?"  said  Clare. 

Dinny  met  the  solicitor's  eyes.  "Not  at  all."  She  did  not 
know  if  he  meant  it. 

The  General  and  Sir  Lawrence  went  out,  and  there  was 
silence.  'Very  young*  Roger  leaned  against  the  fireplace, 
and  most  unexpectedly  took  a  pinch  of  snuff.  Dinny  saw 


OVERTHERIVER  173 

that  he  was  lean  and  rather  tall,  and  that  his  jaw  jutted. 
There  was  a  faintly  sandy  tinge  in  his  hair,  and  in  the 
ruddiness  of  his  hollowed  cheeks. 

"Your  father,  Lady  Corven,  said  there  was  no  truth  in 
these — er — allegations." 

"The  facts  are  as  stated,  the  inferences  are  wrong. 
There's  been  nothing  between  Mr.  Groom  and  myself, 
except  three  kisses  on  my  cheek." 

"I  see.  About  this  night  in  the  car,  now?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Clare:  "Not  even  one  of  those  kisses." 

"Nothing,"  repeated  young  Groom;  "absolutely  no- 
thing." 

'Very  young*  Roger  passed  his  tongue  over  his  lips. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  I  think  I  should  like  to  understand 
your  feelings  for  each  other — if  any." 

"We  are  speaking,"  said  Clare,  in  a  clear  voice,  "the 
absolute  truth,  as  we've  told  it  to  my  people;  that's  why  I 
asked  my  sister  to  stay.  Tony?" 

'Very  young'  Roger's  mouth  twitched.  To  Dinny  he  did 
not  seem  to  be  taking  it  quite  as  a  lawyer  should;  some- 
thing in  his  dress,  indeed,  was  a  little  unexpected — his 
waistcoat  was  it,  or  his  tie?  That  snuff,  too — as  if  a  dash  of 
the  artist  had  been  suppressed  in  him.  He  said: 

"Yes,  Mr.  Groom?" 

Young  Groom,  who  had  gone  very  red,  looked  at  Clare 
almost  angrily. 

"I'm  in  love  with  her." 

"Quite!"  said  Very  young'  Roger,  reopening  the  snuff- 
box. "And  you,  Lady  Corven,  regard  him  as  a  friend?" 

Clare  nodded — a  faint  surprise  on  her  face. 

Dinny  felt  a  sudden  gratitude  towards  the  questioner, 
who  was  applying  a  bandana  to  his  nose. 

"The  car  was  an  accident/'  added  Clare  quickly;  "it  was 
pitch  dark  in  the  wood,  our  lights  had  failed,  and  we 
didn't  want  to  run  any  risk  of  people  seeing  us  together  so 
late  at  night." 


174  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Exactly!  Excuse  my  asking,  but  you're  both  prepared 
to  go  into  Court  and  swear  there  was  absolutely  nothing 
that  night  or  on  the  other  occasions,  except — did  you  say — 
three  kisses?" 

"On  my  cheek,"  said  Clare;  "one  out  of  doors,  when  I 
was  in  a  car  and  he  wasn't,  and  the  others — when  were 
the  others,  Tony?" 

Young  Croom  said  between  his  clenched  teeth:  "In 
your  rooms  when  I  hadn't  seen  you  for  over  a  fortnight." 

"You  neither  of  you  knew  you  were  being — er — 
shadowed?" 

"I  knew  my  husband  had  threatened  it,  but  we'd  neither 
of  us  noticed  anything." 

"About  leaving  your  husband,  Lady  Corven;  any  reason 
you'd  care  to  give  me?" 

Clare  shook  her  head. 

"I'm  not  going  into  my  life  with  him,  either  here  or  any- 
where. And  I'm  not  going  back  to  him." 

"Incompatibility,  or  worse?" 

"I  think  worse." 

"But  no  definite  charge.  You  realise  the  importance?" 

"Yes.  But  I'm  not  going  into  it,  even  privately." 

Young  Croom  burst  out:  "He  was  a  brute  to  her,  of 
course." 

"You  knew  him,  Mr.  Croom?" 

"Never  seen  him  in  my  life." 

"Then " 

"He  just  thinks  it  because  I  left  Jerry  suddenly.  He 
knows  nothing." 

Dinny  saw  'very  young'  Roger's  eyes  rest  on  herself. 
"But  you  do,"  they  seemed  to  say;  and  she  thought:  'He's 
no  fool!' 

He  had  returned  from  the  fireplace,  walking  with  a 
slight  limp;  sitting  down  again,  he  took  up  the  document, 
narrowed  his  eyes,  and  said: 

"This  isn't  the  sort  of  evidence  the  Court  likes;  in  fact 


OVERTHERIVER  175 

I'm  not  sure  it's  evidence  at  all.  All  the  same  it's  not  a  very 
bright  prospect.  If  you  could  show  strong  cause  for  leaving 
your  husband,  and  we  could  get  over  that  night  in  the 
car — "  He  looked,  bird-like,  first  at  Clare  and  then  at  young 
Groom.  "Still,  you  can't  let  damages  and  costs  like  that  go 
by  default,  when — er — you've  done  nothing."  His  eyes 
fell;  and  Dinny  thought: 

'Not  conspicuous — his  credulity  1' 

'Very  young'  Roger  lifted  a  paper-knife. 

"We  might  possibly  get  the  damages  agreed  at  a  com- 
paratively nominal  sum,  if  you  put  in  a  defence  and  then 
didn't  appear.  May  I  ask  your  monetary  position,  Mr. 
Groom?" 

"I  haven't  a  bean,  but  that  doesn't  matter." 

"What  exactly  will  'defending'  mean?"  asked  Clare. 

"You'd  both  go  into  the  box  and  deny  the  charges. 
You'd  be  cross-examined,  and  we  should  cross-examine  the 
petitioner  and  the  enquiry  agents.  Candidly,  unless  you 
can  give  good  reason  for  having  left  your  husband,  you're 
almost  bound  to  have  the  judge  against  you.  And,"  he 
added,  in  a  somewhat  human  manner,  "a  night  is  a  night, 
especially  to  the  divorce  court,  even  in  a  car;  though,  as  I 
say,  it's  not  the  sort  of  evidence  generally  required." 

"My  Uncle  thinks,"  said  Dinny  quietly,  "that  some  of 
the  jury,  at  all  events,  might  believe  them,  and  that  the 
damages,  in  any  case,  would  be  reduced." 

'Very  young'  Roger  nodded. 

"We'll  see  what  Mr.  Kingson  says.  I  should  like  to  sec 
your  father  and  Sir  Lawrence  again." 

Dinny  went  to  the  door  and  held  it  open  for  her  sister 
and  young  Groom.  Glancing  back  she  saw  Very  young' 
Roger's  face.  It  was  as  if  someone  had  asked  him  not  to  be 
a  realist.  He  caught  her  eye,  gave  a  funny  little  cock  of  his 
head,  and  took  out  his  snuff-box.  She  shut  the  door  and 
went  up  to  him. 

"You'll  make  a  mistake  if  you  don't  believe  them. 


Ij6  OVER     THE     RIVER 

They're  speaking  the  absolute  truth." 

"Why  did  she  leave  her  husband,  Miss  Cherrell?" 

"If  she  won't  tell  you,  I  can't.  But  I'm  sure  she  was 
right." 

He  considered  her  for  a  moment  with  that  sharp  glance. 

"Somehow,"  he  said  suddenly,  "I  wish  it  were  you." 
And,  taking  snuff,  he  turned  to  the  General  and  Sir 
Lawrence. 

"Well?"  said  the  General. 

'Very  young'  Roger  looked  suddenly  more  sandy. 

"If  she  had  good  reason  for  leaving  her  husband " 

"She  had." 

"Father!" 

"It  appears  she  isn't  prepared  to  speak  of  it." 

"Nor  should  I  be,"  said  Dinny  quietly. 

'Very  young'  Roger  murmured:  "It  might  make  all  the 
difference,  though." 

"Serious  thing  for  young  Groom,  Mr.  Forsyte,"  put  in 
Sir  Lawrence. 

"Serious,  whether  they  defend  or  not,  Sir  Lawrence. 
I'd  better  see  them  both  separately.  Then  I'll  get  Mr. 
Kingson's  view,  and  let  you  know  to-morrow.  Will  that 
do,  General?" 

"It  revolts  me,"  said  the  General,  "to  think  of  that  fellow 
Corven!" 

"Quite!"  said  'very  young'  Roger,  and  Dinny  thought 
she  had  never  heard  a  more  doubtful  sound. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

DINNT  sat  in  the  little  bare  waiting-room  turning  over  The 
Times.  Young  Groom  stood  at  the  window. 

"Dinny,"  he  said,  turning,  "can  you  think  of  any  way  in 
which  I  can  make  this  less  beastly  for  her?  It's  all  my  fault 
in  a  sense,  but  I  have  tried  to  keep  myself  in  hand." 

Dinny  looked  at  his  troubled  face.  "I  can't;  except  by 
sticking  to  the  exact  truth." 

"Do  you  believe  in  that  chap  in  there?" 

"I  rather  do.  I  like  his  taking  snuff." 

"I  don't  believe  in  defending.  Why  should  she  be  ragged 
in  the  witness-box  for  nothing?  What  does  it  matter  if  they 
bankrupt  me?" 

"We  must  prevent  that  somehow." 

"D'you  think  I'd  let " 

"We  won't  discuss  it,  Tony.  Sufficient  unto  the  day! 
Isn't  this  a  dingy  place?  Dentists  try  much  harder — Marcus 
Stone  on  the  walls,  all  the  old  Bystanders,  and  you  can  bring 
a  dog." 

"Could  we  smoke?" 

"Surely." 

"These  are  only  stinkers." 

Dinny  took  one,  and  they  puffed  for  a  minute  in  silence. 

"It's  too  foull"  he  said,  suddenly.  "That  fellow  will 
have  to  come  over,  won't  he?  He  never  can  really  have 
cared  a  scrap  for  her." 

"Oh!  yes,  he  did.  'Souvent  homme  varie,  folle  est  qui  s*y 
fier  " 

"Well,"  said  young  Croom  grimly,  "I'd  better  be 
kept  from  him."  He  went  back  to  the  window  and 
stood  looking  out.  Dinny  sat  thinking  of  that  scene, 
when  two  men  had  not  been  kept  apart,  so  pitifully 


I78  OVERTHERIVER 

like  a  dog  fight  and  rending  to  her  in  its  sequel. 

Then  Clare  came  in.  There  were  spots  of  red  in  her  pale 
cheeks.  "Your  turn,  Tony." 

Young  Groom  came  from  the  window,  looked  hard  into 
her  face,  and  passed  into  the  lawyer's  room.  Dinny  felt 
very  sorry  for  him. 

"Ughl"  said  Clare:  "Let's  get  out  of  this!" 

On  the  pavement,  she  went  on: 

"I  wish  now  we  had  been  lovers,  Dinny,  instead  of  in 
this  mock-pretty  state  that  no  one  believes  in." 

"We  do  believe." 

"Oh!  you  and  Dad.  But  that  snuffy  rabbit  doesn't,  and 
no  one  else  will.  Still,  I  shall  go  through  with  it.  I  won't 
let  Tony  down,  and  I  won't  give  Jerry  an  inch  that  I  can 
help  giving." 

"Let's  have  tea,"  said  Dinny.  "There  must  be  tea 
somewhere  in  the  City." 

In  a  crowded  thoroughfare  they  soon  saw  an  A.B.C. 

"Then  you  didn't  like  Very  young'  Roger?"  asked 
Dinny  from  across  the  small  round  table. 

"Oh!  he's  all  right — rather  decent,  really.  I  suppose 
lawyers  simply  can't  believe.  But  nothing  will  shake  me, 
Dinny,  about  not  going  into  my  married  life.  I  will  not, 
and  that's  flat." 

"I  see  his  point.  You  start  with  the  battle  half  won 
against  you." 

"I  won't  allow  the  lawyers  to  work  it  in.  We  employ 
them,  and  they  must  do  what  we  want.  I'm  going  straight 
from  here  to  the  Temple,  by  the  bye,  and  perhaps  on 
to  the  House." 

"Excuse  my  reverting  for  a  moment;  but  what  are  you 
going  to  do  about  Tony  Croom  till  this  comes  on?" 

"Go  on  just  as  we  were,  except  for  nights  in  cars. 
Though  what  the  difference  between  day  and  night — in  a 
car,  or  anywhere  else — is,  I  don't  know." 

"I  suppose  they  go  by  human  nature  as  a  whole."  And 


OVER     THE     RIVER  179 

Dinny  leaned  back.  So  many  girls,  so  many  young  men, 
snatching  their  teas  and  rolls  and  buns  and  cocoa;  chatter 
and  silence  and  a  stale  effluvium,  little  tables,  and  the 
attendant  spirits.  What  was  human  nature  as  a  whole? 
Didn't  they  say  that  it  had  to  be  changed?  The  stuffy  past 
wiped  out!  And  yet  this  A.B.C.  was  just  like  the  A. B.C. 
she  went  into  with  her  mother  before  the  war,  and  thought 
so  thrilling  because  the  bread  was  aerated.  And  the 
Divorce  Court — into  which  she  had  never  been  yet — was 
that  any  different? 

"Have  you  finished,  old  thing?"  said  Clare. 

"Yes.  I'll  come  with  you  as  far  as  the  Temple." 

As  they  paused  to  part  at  Middle  Temple  Lane,  a  rather 
high  and  pleasant  voice  said: 

"What  luckl"  and  a  light  momentary  grip  was  laid  on 
her  arm. 

"If  you're  going  straight  to  the  House,"  said  Clare, 
"I'll  run  on  and  get  my  things  and  join  you  here." 

"Tactful,"  said  Dornford.  "Let's  stand  against  this 
'portal.'  When  I  don't  see  you  for  so  long,  Dinny,  I  feel 
lost.  Jacob  served  for  Rachel  fourteen  years — longevity  is 
not  what  it  was,  so  every  month  I  serve  is  equal  to  one  of 
his  years." 

"Rachel  and  he  were  walking  out." 

"I  know.  Well,  I  must  just  wait  and  hope.  I  just  have 
to  wait." 

Leaning  against  the  yellow  'portal'  she  looked  at  him. 
His  face  was  quivering.  Suddenly  sorry,  she  said: 

"Some  day,  perhaps,  I  shall  come  to  Life  again.  I  won't 
wait  any  more  now.  Good-bye,  and  thank  youl  .  .  ." 

This  sudden  intrusion  of  herself  was  no  comfort  to  her 
in  her  homing  bus.  The  sight  of  his  quivering  face  made 
her  restless  and  uneasy.  She  did  not  want  to  cause  him 
unhappiness — a  nice  man,  considerate  to  Clare,  a  pleasant 
voice,  an  attractive  face;  and  in  range  of  interest  nearer 
to  her  than  Wilfrid  had  ever  been.  Only,  where  was  that 


l8o  OVERTHERIVER 

wild,  sweet  yearning,  transmuting  every  value,  turning 
the  world  into  a  single  being,  the  one  longed-for,  dreamed- 
of  mate?  She  sat  very  still  in  the  bus,  looking  over  the 
head  of  the  woman  on  the  opposite  side,  who,  with  fingers 
crisped  on  the  satchel  in  her  lap,  wore  the  expression  of  a 
sportsman  about  to  try  a  new  field  or  spinney.  The  lights 
were  coming  up  in  Regent  Street  of  a  cold,  just  not  snowy 
evening.  There  used  to  be  the  low  curving  roof-line,  the 
rather  nice,  bilious  yellow  of  the  Quadrant.  She  remem- 
bered how  on  the  top  of  a  bus  she  had  differed  from  the 
girl  Millicent  Pole  about  old  Regent  Street.  Changing, 
changing,  everything  changing!  And  before  her  suddenly 
closed  eyes  came  Wilfrid's  face,  with  its  lips  drawn 
back,  as  she  had  seen  it  last  passing  her  in  the  Green 
Park. 

Someone  trod  on  her  toe.  She  opened  her  eyes,  and  said: 
"I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Granted,  I'm  sure." 

Very  polite!    People  were  more  polite  every  year! 

The  bus  had  stopped.  Dinny  hurried  from  it.  She  went 
down  Conduit  Street,  passing  her  father's  tailors.  Poor 
darling,  he  never  went  there  now.  Clothes  were  so  dear; 
and,  of  course,  he  loathed  new  clothes!  She  came  to  Bond 
Street. 

The  traffic  staggered  to  a  standstill,  the  whole  street 
seemed  one  long  line  of  held-up  cars.  And  England 
ruined!  She  crossed  into  Bruton  Street.  And  then,  in  front 
of  her,  she  saw  a  familiar  figure,  walking  slowly  with  his 
head  down!  She  came  up  with  him. 

"Stack!" 

He  raised  his  head;  tears  were  trickling  down  his  cheeks. 
He  blinked  his  large  dark  prominent  eyes,  and  passed  his 
hand  over  his  face. 

"You,  miss?  I  was  just  coming  to  you."  And  he  held 
out  a  telegram. 

Holding  it  up  in  the  dim  light,  she  read: 


OVER     THE     RIVER  l8l 

"Henry  Stack,  5oa,  Cork  Street,  London.  Very  sorry 
to  inform  you  Honourable  Wilfrid  Desert  drowned  on 
expedition  up-country  some  weeks  ago.  Body  recovered 
and  buried  on  spot.  Report  only  just  come  in.  No  possible 
doubt.  Condolences.  British  Consulate,  Bangkok." 

Stonily  she  stood,  seeing  nothing.  Stack's  fingers  came 
up  and  detached  the  telegram. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Thank  you.  Show  it  to  Mr.  Mont, 
Stack.  Don't  grieve." 

"Oh,  miss!" 

Dinny  laid  her  ringers  on  his  sleeve,  gave  it  a  little  pull, 
and  walked  swiftly  on. 

Don't  grieve!  Sleet  was  falling  now.  She  raised  her  face 
to  feel  the  tingling  touch  of  those  small  flakes.  No  more 
dead  to  her  than  he  had  already  been.  But — dead!  Away 
over  there — utterly  far!  Lying  in  the  earth  by  the  river 
that  had  drowned  him,  in  forest  silence,  where  no  one 
would  ever  see  his  grave.  Every  memory  she  had  of  him 
came  to  life  with  an  intensity  that  seemed  to  take  all 
strength  from  her  limbs,  so  that  she  nearly  collapsed  in 
the  snowy  street.  She  stood  for  a  minute  with  her  gloved 
hand  on  the  railing  of  a  house.  An  evening  postman 
stopped  and  looked  round  at  her.  Perhaps  some  tiny  flame 
of  hope — that  some  day  he  would  come  back — had 
flickered  deep  down  within  her;  perhaps  only  the  snowy 
cold  was  creeping  into  her  bones;  but  she  felt  deadly  cold 
and  numb. 

She  reached  Mount  Street  at  last  and  let  herself  in.  And 
there  a  sudden  horror  of  betraying  that  anything  had  hap- 
pened to  awaken  pity  for  her,  interest  in  her,  any  sort  of 
feeling,  beset  her,  and  she  fled  to  her  room.  What  was  it 
to  anyone  but  her?  And  pride  so  moved  within  her  that 
even  her  heart  felt  cold  as  stone. 

A  hot  bath  revived  her  a  little.  She  dressed  for  dinner 
early  and  went  down. 


l82  OVER     THE     RIVER 

The  evening  was  one  of  silences  more  tolerable  than  the 
spasmodic  spurts  of  conversation.  Dinny  felt  ill.  When 
she  went  up  to  bed  her  Aunt  came  to  her  room. 

"Dinny,  you  look  like  a  ghost." 

"I  got  chilled,  Auntie." 

"LawyersI — they  do.   I've  brought  you  a  posset." 

"Ahl   I've  always  longed  to  know  what  a  posset  is." 

"Well,  drink  it." 

Dinny  drank,  and  gasped. 

"Frightfully  strong." 

"Yes.  Your  Uncle  made  it.  Michael  rang  up."  And 
taking  the  glass,  Lady  Mont  bent  forward  and  kissed  her 
cheek.  "That's  all,"  she  said.  "Now  go  to  bed,  or  you'll 
be  ill." 

Dinny  smiled.   "I'm  not  going  to  be  ill,  Aunt  Em." 

In  pursuance  of  that  resolve  she  went  down  to  breakfast 
next  morning. 

The  oracle,  it  seemed,  had  spoken  in  a  typewritten  letter 
signed  Kingson,  Cuthcott  and  Forsyte.  It  recommended 
putting  in  a  defence,  and  had  so  advised  Lady  Corven  and 
Mr.  Groom.  When  it  had  taken  the  necessary  proceedings 
it  would  advise  further. 

And  that  coldness  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach  which 
follows  the  receipt  of  lawyers'  letters  was  felt  even  by 
Dinny,  the  pit  of  whose  stomach  was  already  deadly  cold. 

She  went  back  to  Condaford  with  her  father  by  the 
morning  train,  repeating  to  her  Aunt  the  formula:  "I'm 
not  going  to  be  ill." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

BUT  she  was  ill,  and  for  a  month  in  her  conventual  room 
at  Condaford  often  wished  she  were  dead  and  done  with. 
She  might,  indeed,  quite  easily  have  died  if  such  belief  as 
she  had  in  a  future  life  had  grown  instead  of  declining  as 
her  strength  ebbed.  To  rejoin  Wilfrid,  where  this  world's 
pain  and  judgments  were  not,  had  a  fatal  attraction.  To 
fade  out  into  the  sleep  of  nothingness  was  not  hard,  but 
had  no  active  enticement;  and,  as  the  tide  of  health  turned 
back  within  her,  seemed  less  and  less  natural.  The  solici- 
tude of  people  had  a  subtle,  pervasive  healing  influence. 
The  village  required  a  daily  bulletin,  her  mother  had  been 
writing  or  'phoning  almost  daily  to  a  dozen  people.  Clare 
had  been  down  every  week-end,  bringing  flowers  from 
Dornford.  Aunt  Em  had  been  sending  twice  a  week  the 
products  of  Boswell  and  Johnson;  Fleur  bombarding  her 
with  the  products  of  Piccadilly.  Adrian  had  come  down 
three  times  without  warning.  Hilary  began  sending  funny 
little  notes  the  moment  she  had  turned  the  corner. 

On  March  the  thirtieth,  spring  visited  her  room  with 
south-west  airs,  a  small  bowl  of  the  first  spring  flowers, 
some  pussy  willow,  and  a  sprig  of  gorse.  She  was  picking 
up  rapidly  now,  and  three  days  later  was  out  of  doors. 
For  everything  in  nature  she  felt  a  zest  such  as  she  had 
not  known  for  a  long  time.  Crocuses,  daffodil  clumps, 
swelling  buds,  sun  on  the  fantails'  wings,  shapes  and  colour 
of  the  clouds,  scent  of  the  wind,  all  affected  her  with  an 
almost  painful  emotion.  Yet  she  had  no  desire  to  do  any- 
thing or  see  anybody.  In  this  queer  apathy  she  accepted 
an  invitation  from  Adrian  to  go  abroad  with  him  on  his 
short  holiday. 

The  memorable  things  about  their  fortnight's  stay  at 
183 


184  OVERTHERIVER 

Argeles  in  the  Pyrenees,  were  the  walks  they  took,  the 
flowers  they  picked,  the  Pyrenean  sheep-dogs,  the  almond 
blossom  they  saw,  the  conversations  they  held.  They  were 
out  all  day,  taking  lunch  with  them,  and  the  opportunities 
for  talk  were  unlimited.  Adrian  became  eloquent  on 
mountains.  He  had  never  got  over  his  climbing  days. 
Dinny  suspected  him  of  trying  to  rouse  her  from  the 
lethargy  in  which  she  was  sunk. 

"When  I  went  up  'the  little  Sinner*  in  the  Dolomites 
with  Hilary  before  the  war,"  he  said  one  day,  "I  got  as 
near  to  God  as  I  ever  shall.  Nineteen  years  ago — dash  it! 
What's  the  nearest  to  God  you  ever  got,  Dinny?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Look  here,  my  dear,  what  are  you  now — twenty- 
seven?" 

"Nearly  twenty-eight." 

"On  the  threshold  still.  I  suppose  talking  it  out 
wouldn't  help?" 

"You  ought  to  know,  Uncle,  that  talking  one's  heart 
out  is  not  in  the  family." 

"Truel  The  more  we're  hurt  the  silenter  we  get.  But 
one  mustn't  inbreed  to  sorrow,  Dinny." 

Dinny  said  suddenly:  "I  understand  perfectly  how 
women  go  into  convents,  or  give  themselves  up  to  good 
works.  I  always  used  to  think  it  showed  a  lack  of  humour." 

"It  can  show  a  lack  of  courage,  or  too  much  courage, 
of  the  sort  fanatical." 

"Or  broken  springs." 

Adrian  looked  at  her. 

"Yours  are  not  broken,  Dinny — badly  bent,  not  broken." 

"Let's  hope  so,  Uncle;  but  they  ought  to  be  straightening 
by  now." 

"You're  beginning  to  look  fine." 

"Yes,  I'm  eating  enough  even  for  Aunt  Em.  It's  taking 
interest  in  oneself  that's  the  trouble."  f 

"I  agree.   I  wonder  if " 


OVER     THE     RIVER  l8j 

"Not  iron,  darling.   It  sews  me  up  inside." 

Adrian  smiled.   "I  was  thinking  more  of  children." 

"They're  not  synthetic,  yet.  I'm  all  right,  and  very 
lucky,  as  things  go.  Did  I  tell  you  old  Betty  died?" 

"Good  old  soul!    She  used  to  give  me  bulls'-eyes." 

"She  was  the  real  thing.  We  read  too  many  books, 
Uncle." 

"Indubitably.  Walk  more,  read  lessl  Let's  have  our 
lunch." 

On  the  way  back  to  England  they  stayed  two  nights  in 
Paris  at  a  little  hotel  over  a  restaurant  near  the  Gare  St. 
Lazare.  They  had  wood  fires,  and  their  beds  were 
comfortable. 

"Only  the  French  know  what  a  bed  should  be,"  said 
Adrian. 

The  cooking  down  below  was  intended  for  racing  men 
and  such  as  go  where  they  can  appreciate  food.  The 
waiters,  who  wore  aprons,  looked,  as  Adrian  expressed  it, 
"like  monks  doing  a  spot  of  work,"  pouring  the  wine  and 
mixing  the  salads  with  reverence.  He  and  Dinny  were 
the  only  foreigners  in  either  hotel  or  restaurant,  not  far 
from  being  the  only  foreigners  in  Paris. 

"Marvellous  town,  Dinny.  Except  for  cars  in  place  of 
fiacres  and  the  Eiffel  Tower,  I  don't  see  any  real  change 
by  daylight  since  I  was  first  here  in  '88,  when  your  grand- 
father was  Minister  at  Copenhagen.  There's  the  same  tang 
of  coffee  and  wood  smoke  in  the  air;  people  have  the  same 
breadth  of  back,  the  same  red  buttons  in  their  coats;  there 
are  the  same  tables  outside  the  same  cafes,  the  same 
affifhes,  the  same  funny  little  stalls  for  selling  books,  the 
same  violently  miraculous  driving,  the  same  pervading 
French  grey,  even  in  the  sky;  and  the  same  rather  ill- 
tempered  look  of  not  giving  a  damn  for  anything  outside 
Paris.  Paris  leads  fashion,  and  yet  it's  the  most  conservative 
place  in  the  world.  They  say  the  advanced  literary  crowd 
here  regard  the  world  as  having  begun  in  1914  at  earliest, 


186  OVER     THE     RIVER 

have  scrapped  everything  that  came  before  the  war, 
despise  anything  that  lasts,  are  mostly  Jews,  Poles  and 
Irishmen,  and  yet  have  chosen  this  changeless  town  to 
function  in.  The  same  with  the  painters  and  musicians, 
and  every  other  extremist.  Here  they  gather  and  chatter 
and  experiment  themselves  to  death.  And  good  old  Paris 
laughs  and  carries  on,  as  concerned  with  reality  and 
flavours  and  the  past  as  it  ever  was.  Paris  produces 
anarchy  exactly  as  stout  produces  froth." 

Dinny  pressed  his  arm. 

"That  was  a  good  effort,  Uncle.  I  must  say  I  feel  more 
alive  here  than  I  have  for  ages." 

"Ah!  Paris  pets  the  senses.  Let's  go  in  here — too  cold 
to  sit  out.  What'll  you  have,  tea  or — absinthe?" 

"Absinthe." 

"You  won't  like  it." 

"All  right — tea  with  lemon." 

Waiting  for  her  tea  in  the  quiet  hurly-burly  of  the  Cafe 
de  la  Paix,  Dinny  watched  her  Uncle's  thin,  bearded  form, 
and  thought  that  he  looked  quite  'in  his  plate,'  but  with 
a  queer,  interested  contentment  that  identified  him  with 
the  life  around. 

To  be  interested  in  life  and  not  pet  oneselfl  And  she 
looked  about  her.  Her  neighbours  were  neither  remark- 
able nor  demonstrative,  but  they  gave  an  impression  of 
doing  what  they  liked,  not  of  being  on  the  way  to  some- 
where else. 

"They  dig  into  the  moment,  don't  they?"  said  Adrian 
suddenly. 

"Yes,  I  was  thinking  that." 

"The  French  make  an  art  of  living.  We  hope  for  the 
future  or  regret  the  past.  Precious  little  'present'  about 
the  Englishl" 

"Why  are  these  so  different?" 

"Less  northern  blood,  more  wine  and  oil;  their 
heads  are  rounder  than  ours,  their  bodies  more  stocky, 


OVER     THE     RIVER  187 

and  their  eyes  are  mainly  brown." 

"Those  are  things  we  can't  alter,  anyway." 

"The  French  are  essentially  the  medium  people.  They've 
brought  equilibrium  to  a  high  point.  Their  senses  and 
intellects  balance." 

"But  they  get  fat,  Uncle." 

"Yes,  but  all  over;  they  don't  jut,  and  they  hold  them- 
selves up.  I'd  rather  be  English,  of  course;  but  if  I  weren't, 
I'd  rather  be  French." 

"Isn't  there  anything  in  having  an  itch  for  something 
better  than  you've  got?" 

"Ahl  Ever  noticed,  Dinny,  that  when  we  say  'Be 
good!'  they  say  'Soye%  sage!'?  There's  a  lot  in  that.  I've 
heard  Frenchmen  put  our  unease  down  to  the  Puritan 
tradition.  But  that's  to  mistake  effect  for  cause,  symptoms 
for  roots.  I  admit  we've  got  an  urge  towards  the  promised 
land,  but  Puritanism  was  part  of  that  urge,  so's  our  wander- 
lust and  colonising  quality;  so's  our  Protestantism, 
Scandinavian  blood,  the  sea  and  the  climate.  None  of 
that  helps  us  in  the  art  of  living.  Look  at  our  indus- 
trialism, our  old  maids,  cranks,  humanitarianisms,  poetryl 
We  jut  in  every  direction.  We've  got  one  or  two  highly 
mediumising  institutions — the  public  schools,  'cricket'  in 
its  various  forms — but  as  a  people  we're  chock-full 
of  extremism.  The  average  Briton  is  naturally  exceptional, 
and  underneath  his  dread  of  being  conspicuous,  he's 
really  proud  of  it.  Where,  on  earth,  will  you  see  more 
diverse  bone  formation  than  in  England,  and  all  of  it 
peculiar?  We  do  our  level  best  to  be  average,  but,  by 
George,  we  jutl" 

"You're  inspired,  Uncle." 

"Well,  you  look  about  you  when  you  get  home." 

"I  will,"  said  Dinny. 

They  had  a  good  crossing  the  next  day,  and  Adrian 
dropped  her  at  Mount  Street. 

In  kissing  him  good-bye,  she  squeezed  his  little  finger. 


188  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"You've  done  me  a  tremendous  amount  of  good, 
Uncle." 

During  those  six  weeks  she  had  scarcely  thought 
at  all  about  Clare's  troubles,  and  she  asked  at  once 
for  the  latest  news.  A  defence  had  been  delivered  and 
issue  joined;  the  case  would  probably  be  on  in  a  few 
weeks. 

"I've  not  seen  either  Clare  or  young  Croom,"  said 
Sir  Lawrence,  "but  I  gathered  from  Dornford  that 
they  go  about  as  before.  'Very  young'  Roger  still 
harps  on  the  need  for  getting  her  to  speak  about  her 
life  out  there.  Lawyers  seem  to  regard  the  Courts  as 
confessional  boxes  in  which  to  confess  the  sins  of  your 
opponent." 

"Well,  aren't  they?" 

"Judging  by  the  papers,  yes." 

"Well,  Clare  can't  and  won't.  They'll  make  a  great 
mistake  if  they  try  to  force  her.  Has  anything  been  heard 
of  Jerry?" 

"He  must  have  started,  if  he's  to  be  here  in  time." 

"Suppose  they  lose,  what  is  to  be  done  about  Tony 
Croom?" 

"Put  yourself  in  his  place,  Dinny.  Whatever  happens, 
he'll  probably  come  in  for  a  slating  from  the  judge.  He 
won't  be  in  a  mood  to  accept  favours.  If  he  can't  pay 
up  I  don't  quite  know  what  they  can  do  to  him;  something 
unpleasant,  no  doubt.  And  there's  the  question  of  Jack 
Muskham's  attitude — he's  queer." 

"Yes,"  said  Dinny  under  her  breath. 

Sir  Lawrence  dropped  his  monocle. 

"Your  Aunt  suggests  that  young  Croom  should  go 
gold-digging,  come  back  rich,  and  marry  Clare." 

"But  Clare?" 

"Isn't  she  in  love  with  him?" 

Dinny  shook  her  head.  "She  might  be  if  he's 
ruined." 


OVERTHERIVER  189 

"H'm!  And  how  are  you,  my  dear?  Really  yourself 
again?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"Michael  would  like  to  see  you  some  time." 

"I'll  go  round  to-morrow." 

And  that,  meaning  much,  was  all  that  was  said  about 
the  news  that  had  caused  her  illness. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

DINNY  made  the  effort  needed  to  go  round  to  South  Square 
next  morning.  Except  with  Clare  on  her  arrival  from 
Ceylon,  she  had  not  been  there  since  the  day  of  Wilfrid's 
departure  to  Siam. 

"Up  in  his  workroom,  miss." 

"Thank  you,  Coaker,  I'll  go  up." 

Michael  did  not  hear  her  come  in,  and  she  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  at  the  caricature-covered  walls.  It  always 
seemed  to  her  so  odd  that  Michael,  inclined  to  over- 
estimate human  virtues,  should  surround  himself  with  the 
efforts  of  those  who  live  by  exaggerating  human  defects. 

"Am  I  interrupting,  Michael?" 

"Dinny!  You're  looking  a  treatl  You  gave  us  a  bad 
turn,  old  thing.  Sit  downl  I  was  only  looking  into 
potatoes — their  figures  are  so  puzzling." 

They  talked  for  some  time,  and  then,  the  knowledge  of 
what  she  had  come  for  invading  both,  fell  silent. 

"You've  something  to  give  or  tell  me,  Michael." 

He  went  to  a  drawer,  and  took  out  a  little  packet.  Dinny 
unwrapped  it  in  her  lap.  There  was  a  letter,  a  little  photo- 
graph, a  badge. 

"It's  his  passport  photo,  and  D.S.O.  ribbon.  In  the 
letter  there's  something  for  you;  in  fact,  the  whole  letter 
is  really  for  you.  They're  all  for  you.  Excuse  me,  I  have 
to  see  Fleur  before  she  goes  out." 

Dinny  sat  motionless,  looking  at  the  photograph. 
Yellowed  with  damp  and  heat,  it  had  the  uncompromising 
reality  that  characterises  passport  photographs.  "Wilfrid 
Desert"  was  written  across  it,  and  he  looked  straight  at 
her  out  of  the  pasteboard.  She  turned  it  face  down  on 
her  lap,  and  smoothed  the  ribbon,  which  was  stained  and 

190 


OVER     THE     RIVER  191 

crushed.  Then,  nerving  herself,  she  opened  the  letter. 
From  it  dropped  a  folded  sheet,  which  she  set  apart.  The 
letter  was  to  Michael. 

"New  Year's  Day. 
"DEAR  OLD  M.  M.,— 

"Greetings  to  you  and  Fleur,  and  many  good  years! 
I'm  far  up  north  in  a  very  wild  part  of  this  country  with  an 
objective  that  I  may  reach  or  not — the  habitation  of  a  tribe 
quite  definitely  pre-Siamese  and  non-Mongolian.  Adrian 
Charwell  would  be  interested.  Fve  often  meant  to  let  you 
know  my  news,  but,  when  it  came  to  writing,  didn't — 
partly  because  if  you  don't  know  this  part  of  the  world 
description's  no  use,  and  partly  because  it's  difficult  for 
me  to  believe  that  anybody  can  be  interested.  I'm  writing 
now  really  to  ask  you  to  tell  Dinny  that  I  am  at  peace  with 
myself  at  last.  I  don't  know  whether  it's  the  strength  and 
remoteness  of  the  atmosphere  out  here,  or  whether  I've 
gained  some  of  the  Eastern  conviction  that  the  world  of 
other  men  does  not  matter;  one's  alone  from  birth  to 
death,  except  for  that  fine  old  companion,  the  Universe — 
of  which  one  is  the  microcosm.  It's  a  kind  of  queer 
peace,  and  I  often  wonder  how  I  could  have  been  so 
torn  and  tortured.  Dinny,  I  think,  will  be  glad  to  know 
this;  just  as  I  would  be  truly  glad  to  know  that  she,  too, 
is  at  peace. 

"I've  written  a  little,  and,  if  I  come  back  from  this 
business,  shall  try  and  produce  some  account  of  it.  In 
three  days  from  now  we  reach  the  river,  cross  it,  and  follow 
up  a  western  tributary  towards  the  Himalayas. 

"Faint  echoes  of  the  crisis  you've  been  having 
trickle  out  here.  Poor  old  Englandl  I  don't  suppose 
I  shall  ever  see  her  again;  but  she's  a  game  old  bird 
when  put  to  it,  and  I  can't  see  her  being  beaten;  in 
fact,  properly  moulted,  I  expect  her  to  fly  better  than 
ever. 


192  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Good-bye,  old  man,  my  love  to  you  both;  and  to  Dinny 
my  special  love. 

"WILFRID." 

Peacel  And  she?  She  rewrapped  the  ribbon,  photo- 
graph, and  letter  and  thrust  them  into  her  bag.  Making 
no  noise,  she  opened  the  door,  went  down  the  stairs,  and 
out  into  the  sunshine. 

Alone  by  the  river,  she  unfolded  the  sheet  she  had  taken 
from  the  letter,  and,  under  a  plane  tree  as  yet  bare  of  leaves, 
read  these  verses: 

"L/>  Still! 

"The  sun,  who  brings  all  earth  to  bloom, 
Corrupts  and  makes  corruption  flower, 
Is  just  a  flame  that  thro*  the  gloom 
Of  heaven  burns  a  little  hour; 

And,  figured  on  the  chart  of  night — 
A  somewhat  negligible  star — 
Is  but  a  pinpricked  point  of  light 
As  million-million  others  are; 

And,  though  it  be  the  all  in  all 
Of  my  existence  and  decay, 
It  has  as  simple  rise  and  fall 
As  I  have,  and  as  short  a  day. 

But  that  no  unction  to  my  heart 
Will  lay;  the  smallest  germ  in  me 
Plays  just  as  passionate  a  part 
As  I  do,  in  eternity. 

The  germ  and  I  and  sun,  we  rise, 
Fulfil  our  little  lives,  and  die; 
And  to  all  question  God  replies: 
'Lie  still!   I  cannot  tell  you  why!'  " 


OVERTHERIVER  193 

Lie  still!  The  Embankment  was  nearly  empty  of  people 
and  of  traffic.  She  walked  on,  crossing  the  main  lines  of 
the  traffic,  and  came  to  Kensington  Gardens.  There  on  the 
Round  Pond  were  many  small  boats,  and  many  children 
interested  in  their  vagaries.  A  bright-haired  little  boy, 
something  like  Kit  Mont,  was  guiding  his  boat  with  a  stick 
to  a  fresh  attempt  to  cross  the  pond.  What  blissful  un- 
consciousness of  all  elsel  Was  that  the  secret  of  happiness? 
To  be  lost  in  the  moment — to  be  out  of  oneself,  like  a 
child!  He  said  suddenly: 

"It's  going!  Look!" 

The  sails  filled,  the  little  boat  floated  away.  The  small 
boy  stood  with  arms  akimbo,  and,  quickly  looking  up  at 
her,  said: 

"Ha!   I  must  run!" 

Dinny  watched  him  stop  now  and  again  with  a  jerk  to 
calculate  the  landing  of  his  boat. 

So  one  ran  through  life,  watching  each  venture  coming 
to  shore,  and  at  the  end  lay  still!  Like  birds  who  uttered 
their  songs,  hunted  for  worms,  preened  their  feathers,  flew 
without  seeming  cause,  unless  for  joy;  mated,  built  nests 
and  fed  their  young,  and  when  all  was  over  became  little 
stiffened  bundles  of  feathers,  and  passed  into  corruption, 
and  dust. 

She  followed  slowly  round  the  pond,  saw  him  again 
guiding  the  boat  with  his  stick,  and  said:  "What  do  you 
call  your  boat?" 

"A  cutter.  I  had  a  schooner,  but  our  dog  ate  the 
rigging." 

"Yes,"  said  Dinny,  "dogs  like  rigging — very  succulent." 

"Very  what?" 

"Like  asparagus." 

"I'm  not  allowed  asparagus,  it's  too  expensive." 

"But  you've  tasted  it?" 

"Yes.    See,  the  wind's  catching  it  again!" 

Off  went  the  boat ,  and  off  went  the  small  bright-haired  boy. 


194  OVER     THE     RIVER 

Adrian's  words  came  into  her  head.  "I  was  thinking 
more  of  children." 

She  walked  into  what  in  old  days  would  have  been 
called  a  glade.  The  ground  was  covered  with  crocuses, 
yellow,  violet,  white,  and  with  daffodils;  the  trees  had 
eagerness  in  every  twig,  stretching  their  buds  upward  to 
the  sun's  warmth;  the  blackbirds  were  in  song.  And  as 
she  walked  she  thought:  'Peace!  There  is  no  peace.  There 
is  life,  and  there  is  death!' 

And  those  who  saw  her  thought:  'Nice-looking 
girl!'  'These  little  hats!'  'Where's  she  goin',  I  wonder, 
with  her  head  in  the  air?'  or,  again,  just:  'Coo!'  She 
crossed  the  road  and  came  to  the  Hudson  Memorial. 
It  was  supposed  to  be  a  home  for  birds;  but  beyond 
a  sparrow  or  two  and  a  fat  pigeon,  there  were  none; 
nor  were  more  than  three  people  looking  at  it.  She, 
who  had  seen  it  with  Wilfrid,  glanced  at  it  for  a  moment 
and  walked  on. 

"Poor  Hudson!   Poor  Rima!"  he  had  said. 

She  went  down  to  the  Serpentine  and  walked  along 
it;  the  sun  was  bright  on  the  water,  and  beyond  it  the 
grass  was  springy  and  dry.  The  papers  were  already 
talking  of  drought!  The  sound  currents  from  north 
and  south  and  west  joined  in  a  mild  continuous  roaring. 
Where  he  was  lying  it  would  be  silent;  strange  birds 
and  little  creatures  would  be  the  only  visitors,  and 
odd-shaped  leaves  would  drop  on  his  grave.  There 
came  into  her  mind  the  pastoral  scenes  in  some  film 
pictures  of  the  Normandy  home  of  Briand,  that  she  had 
seen  at  Argeles.  "A  pity  we  have  to  leave  all  this!"  she 
had  said. 

An  aeroplane  droned  its  way  over  to  the  north,  a 
high,  silvery,  small,  noisy  shape.  He  had  hated  them 
ever  since  the  war.  "Disturbers  of  whatever  Gods 
there  be!" 

Brave  new  world!    God  no  longer  in  His  heaven! 


CVERTHERIVER  195 

She  turned  a  little  north  to  avoid  the  place  where  she 
used  to  meet  him.  The  roofless  tabernacle  of  oratory 
close  to  the  Marble  Arch  was  deserted.  She  left  the  Park 
and  went  towards  Melton  Mews.  It  was  overl  With  a 
queer  little  smile  on  her  lips  she  turned  into  the  Mews 
and  stopped  at  her  sister's  door. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

SHE  found  Clare  in.  For  the  first  few  minutes  they  avoided 
each  other's  troubles,  then  Dinny  said:  "Well?" 

"Not  at  all  well.  I've  split  with  Tony — my  nerves  are 
in  rags  and  his  in  tatters." 

"But  do  you  mean  that  he ?" 

"No.  Only  I've  told  him  I  can't  go  on  seeing  him  till 
this  is  over.  We  meet  meaning  not  to  talk  about  the  thing; 
then  it  crops  up,  and  we  get  all  anyhow." 

"He  must  be  awfully  unhappy." 

"He  is.  But  it's  only  for  another  three  or  four  weeks." 

"And  then?" 

Clare  laughed — no  joyful  sound. 

"But  seriously,  Clare?" 

"We  shan't  win,  and  then  nothing  will  matter.  If  Tony 
wants  me  I  suppose  I  shall  let  him.  He'll  be  ruined,  so  I 
shall  owe  him  that." 

"I  think,"  said  Dinny  slowly,  "that  I  wouldn't  let  the 
result  affect  me." 

Clare  stared  up  at  her  from  the  sofa. 

"That  sounds  almost  too  sensible." 

"It  wasn't  worth  while  to  plead  innocence  unless  you 
meant  to  carry  it  through,  however  the  case  goes.  If  you 
win,  wait  till  you  can  divorce  Jerry.  If  you  don't  win, 
wait  till  you're  divorced.  It  won't  do  Tony  any  real  harm 
to  wait;  and  it'll  certainly  do  you  no  harm  to  know  for 
certain  how  you  feel." 

"Jerry  is  quite  clever  enough  to  prevent  my  ever  getting 
evidence  against  him,  if  he  sets  his  mind  to  it." 

"Then  we  must  hope  you'll  lose.  Your  friends  will  still 
believe  in  you." 

Ckre  shrugged.    "Will  they?" 
196 


OVER     THE     RIVER  197 

"I'll  see  to  that,"  said  Dinny. 

"Dornford  has  advised  telling  Jack  Muskham  before  the 
case  comes  on.  What  do  you  say?" 

"I  should  like  to  see  Tony  Groom  first." 

"Well,  if  you  come  round  again  this  evening,  you'll 
see  him.  He  comes  and  stares  up  at  me  at  seven  o'clock 
on  Saturday  and  Sunday  evenings.  Quaint!" 

"No.  Very  natural.  What  are  you  doing  this  afternoon?" 

"Riding  with  Dornford  in  Richmond  Park.  I  ride  with 
him  in  the  Row  early  every  morning  now.  I  wish  you'd 
come,  Dinny." 

"No  things,  and  no  muscles." 

"Darling,"  said  Clare,  springing  up,  "it  really  was  awful 
while  you  were  ill.  We  felt  ever  so  bad.  Dornford  was 
quite  potty.  You  look  better  now  than  you  did  before." 

"Yes,  I'm  more  pneumatic." 

"OhI  you've  read  that  book?" 

Dinny  nodded.  "I'll  come  round  this  evening.  Good- 
bye; bless  you  I"  ... 

It  was  almost  seven  when  she  slipped  out  of  Mount 
Street  and  walked  rapidly  towards  the  Mews.  A  full  moon 
was  up  with  the  evening  star  in  a  not  yet  darkened  sky. 
Coming  to  the  west  corner  of  the  deserted  Mews,  she  at 
once  saw  young  Croom  standing  below  No.  2.  Waiting 
till  he  began  to  move  away,  she  ran  down  the  Mews  and 
round  the  far  corner  to  catch  him. 

"Dinnyl   How  wonderfull" 

"I  was  told  I  should  catch  you  looking  at  the  Queen." 

"Yes,  that's  what  the  cat  has  come  to." 

"It  might  be  worse." 

"Are  you  all  right  again?  You  must  have  got  a  chill  in 
the  City  that  foul  day." 

"Let's  walk  as  far  as  the  Park.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  about 
Jack  Muskham." 

"I  funk  telling  him." 


198  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Shall  I  do  it  for  you?" 

"But  why?" 

Dinny  took  his  arm. 

"He's  a  connection,  through  Uncle  Lawrence.  Besides, 
I've  had  occasion  to  know  him.  Mr.  Dornford  is  perfectly 
right;  it  will  depend  very  much  on  when  and  what  he's 
told.  Let  me!" 

"I  don't  know  really — I  really  don't  know." 

"I  want  to  see  him  again,  anyway." 

Young  Groom  looked  at  her. 

"Somehow  I  don't  believe  that." 

"Honest  Injun." 

"It's  terribly  sweet  of  you;  of  course  you  can  do  it  much 
better  than  I,  but " 

"That's  enough  then." 

They  had  reached  the  Park,  and  were  walking  along  the 
rails  towards  Mount  Street. 

"Have  you  been  seeing  the  lawyers  much?" 

"Yes,  our  evidence  is  all  taped  out.  It's  the  cross- 
examination." 

"I  think  I  might  enjoy  that,  if  I  were  going  to  tell  the 
truth." 

"They  twist  and  turn  what  you  say  so,  and  their  tones 
of  voice — !  I  went  into  that  court  and  listened  one  day. 
Dornford  told  Clare  he  wouldn't  practise  in  that  court  for 
all  the  gold  in  France.  He's  a  sound  fellow,  Dinny." 

"Yes,"  said  Dinny,  looking  round  at  his  ingenuous  face. 

"I  don't  think  our  lawyers  care  about  the  job  either.  It's 
not  in  their  line.  'Very  young'  Roger  is  a  bit  of  a  sports- 
man. He  believes  we're  telling  the  truth,  because  he  realises 
I'm  sorry  we  are.  That's  your  turning.  I  shall  go  and  bat 
round  the  Park,  or  I  shan't  sleep.  Wonderful  moonl" 

Dinny  pressed  his  hand. 

When  she  reached  her  door,  he  was  still  standing  there, 
and  raised  his  hat  to  her — or  to  the  moon,  she  could  not 
be  quite  sure  which  .  . 


OVER     THE     RIVER  199 

According  to  Sir  Lawrence,  Jack  Muskham  would  be 
up  in  Town  over  the  week-end;  he  now  had  rooms  in 
Ryder  Street.  She  had  not  thought  twice  about  going  all 
the  way  to  Royston  to  see  him  concerning  Wilfrid;  but  he 
might  well  think  twice  about  her  going  to  see  him  in  Ryder 
Street  concerning  young  Groom.  She  telephoned,  there- 
fore, to  Burton's  Club  at  lunch-time  the  next  day. 

His  voice  brought  back  the  shock  of  the  last  time  she 
had  heard  it,  close  to  the  York  Column. 

"Dinny  Cherrell.   Could  I  see  you  some  time  to-day?" 

The  answer  came  slowly. 

"Er— of  course.  When?" 

"Any  time  that  suits  you." 

"Are  you  at  Mount  Street?" 

"Yes,  but  I  would  rather  come  to  you." 

"Well — er — would ?  How  about  tea  at  my  rooms 

in  Ryder  Street?  You  know  the  number?" 

"Yes,  thank  you.  Five  o'clock?" 

Approaching  those  rooms  she  needed  all  her  pluck.  She 
had  last  seen  him  reeling  in  the  thick  of  that  fight  with 
Wilfrid.  Besides,  he  symbolised  to  her  the  rock  on  which 
her  love  for  Wilfrid  had  gone  aground.  She  only  did  not 
hate  him,  because  she  could  not  help  remembering  that 
his  bitterness  towards  Wilfrid  had  been  due  to  his  queer 
appreciation  of  herself.  Only  by  fast  walking,  and  slow 
thinking,  did  she  arrive. 

The  door  was  opened  to  her  by  one  who  obviously 
bettered  his  declining  days  by  letting  rooms  to  such  as  he 
had  valeted  in  the  past.  He  took  her  up  to  the  second 
floor. 

"Miss — er — Cherwell,  sir." 

Tall,  lean,  languid,  neatly  dressed  as  ever,  Jack  Muskham 
was  standing  by  the  open  window  of  a  not  unpleasant 
room.  "Tea,  please,  Rodney."  He  came  towards  her, 
holding  out  his  hand. 

'Like  a  slow-motion  picture/  thought  Dinny.  However 


2OO  OVER     THE     RIVER 

surprised  at  her  wanting  to  see  him,  he  was  showing  no 
sign  of  it. 

"Been  racing  at  all  since  I  saw  you  at  Blenheim's 
Derby?" 

"No." 

"You  backed  him,  I  remember.  Clearest  case  of 
beginner's  luck  I  ever  knew."  His  smile  brought  out  all 
the  wrinkles  on  his  brown  face,  and  Dinny  perceived  that 
there  were  plenty  of  them. 

"Do  sit  down.    Here's  tea.   Will  you  make  it?" 

She  gave  him  his  cup,  took  her  own  and  said: 

"Are  the  Arab  mares  over  yet,  Mr.  Muskham?" 

"I  expect  them  the  end  of  next  month." 

"You  have  young  Tony  Groom  to  look  after  them." 

"Oh!   Do  you  know  him?" 

"Through  my  sister." 

"Nice  boy." 

"He  is,"  said  Dinny.   "It's  about  him  I've  come." 

"Oh!" 

The  thought  'He  owes  me  too  much,'  darted  through 
her.  He  could  not  refuse  her  this!  Leaning  back  and 
crossing  her  knees,  she  looked  him  full  in  the  face. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,  in  confidence,  that  Jerry  Corven 
is  bringing  a  divorce  suit  against  my  sister,  and  Tony 
Groom  is  cited  as  the  co-respondent." 

Jack  Muskham  moved  the  hand  that  held  his  cup. 

"He  is  in  love  with  her,  and  they  have  been  going  about 
together,  but  there  is  no  truth  in  the  charges." 

"I  see,"  said  Muskham. 

"The  case  is  coming  on  quite  soon.  I  persuaded  Tony 
Groom  to  let  me  tell  you  of  it;  it  would  be  so  awkward 
for  him  to  talk  about  himself." 

Muskham  was  looking  at  her  with  unmoved  face. 

"But,"  he  said,  "I  know  Jerry  Corven.  I  didn't  realise 
your  sister  had  left  him." 

"We  keep  it  to  ourselves." 


OVER     THE     RIVER  2OI 

"Was  her  leaving  him  young  Groom's  doing?" 

"No.  They  only  met  on  the  boat  coming  over.  Clare 
left  Jerry  for  quite  another  reason.  She  and  Tony  Groom 
have  been  indiscreet,  of  course;  they've  been  watched  and 
seen  together  in  what  are  known,  I  believe,  as  'compromising 
circumstances.' " 

"How  do  you  mean  exactly?" 

"Driving  back  from  Oxford  late  one  evening  their  lights 
failed  and  they  spent  the  rest  of  the  night  in  the  car 
together." 

Jack  Muskham  raised  his  shoulders  slightly.  Dinny 
leaned  forward  with  her  eyes  on  his. 

"I  told  you  there  was  no  truth  in  the  charges;  there  is 
none." 

"But,  my  dear  Miss  Cherrell,  a  man  never  admits " 

"That  is  why  I  came  to  you  instead  of  Tony.  My  sister 
would  not  tell  me  a  He." 

Again  Muskham  made  the  slight  movement  of  his 
shoulders. 

"I  don't  quite  see "  he  began. 

"What  it  has  to  do  with  you?  This:  I  don't  suppose 
they'll  be  believed." 

"You  mean  if  I  just  read  the  case  it  would  put  me  off 
young  Groom?" 

"Yes,  I  think  you  would  feel  he  had  not  'played  the 
game.'  "  She  could  not  quite  keep  irony  out  of  her  voice. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "has  he?" 

"I  think  so.  He's  deeply  in  love  with  my  sister,  and  yet 
he's  kept  himself  in  hand.  One  can't  help  falling  in  love, 
you  know."  With  those  words  all  the  feelings  of  the  past 
rose  up  within  her,  and  she  looked  down  so  as  not  to  see 
that  impassive  face  and  the  provocative  set  of  its  lips. 
Suddenly,  by  a  sort  of  inspiration,  she  said: 

"My  brother-in-law  has  asked  for  damages." 

"Ohl"  said  Jack  Muskham,  "I  didn't  know  that  was 
done  now." 


202  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Two  thousand,  and  Tony  Groom  has  nothing.  He  pro- 
fesses not  to  care,  but  if  they  lose,  of  course,  it's  ruin." 

After  that  there  was  silence.  Jack  Muskham  went  back 
to  the  window.  He  sat  on  the  sill  and  said: 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  I  can  do?" 

"You  needn't  take  his  job  from  him — that's  all." 

"The  man  was  in  Ceylon  and  his  wife  here.    It's  not " 

Dinny  rose,  took  two  steps  towards  him  and  stood  very 
still. 

"Has  it  ever  struck  you,  Mr.  Muskham,  that  you  owe 
me  anything?  Do  you  ever  remember  that  you  took  my 
lover  from  me?  Do  you  know  that  he  is  dead  out  there, 
where  he  went  because  of  you?" 

"Of  me?" 

"You  and  what  you  stand  for  made  him  give  me  up.  I 
ask  you  now,  however  this  case  goes,  not  to  sack  Tony 
Crooml  Good-byel"  And  before  he  could  answer  she  was 
gone. 

She  almost  ran  towards  the  Green  Park.  How  far  from 
what  she  had  intended!  How  fatal — perhaps!  But  her 
feelings  had  been  too  strong — the  old  revolt  against  the 
dead  wall  of  'form'  and  those  impalpable  inexorable  forces 
of  tradition  which  had  wrecked  her  love  life!  It  could  not 
have  been  otherwise.  The  sight  of  his  long,  dandified 
figure,  the  sound  of  his  voice,  had  brought  it  all  back  too 
strongly.  Ah,  well!  It  was  a  relief;  an  escape  of  old  bitter- 
ness pent  within  her  spirit! 

The  next  morning  she  received  this  note: 

"Ryder  Street. 

"Sunday. 
"DEAR  Miss  CHARWELL, — 

"You  may  rely  on  me  in  that  matter.  With  sincere 
regard, 

"Yours  very  faithfully, 

"JOHN  MUSKHAM." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

WITH  that  promise  to  her  credit  she  went  back  to  Conda- 
ford  the  following  day  and  gave  herself  to  mitigation  of 
the  atmosphere  she  found  there.  Her  father  and  mother, 
living  their  ordinary  lives,  were  obviously  haunted  and 
harassed.  Her  mother,  sensitive  and  secluded,  was  just 
shrinking  from  publicity  discreditable  to  Clare.  Her  father 
seemed  to  feel  that,  however  the  case  went,  most  people 
would  think  his  daughter  a  light  woman  and  a  liar;  young 
Croom  would  be  excused  more  or  less,  but  a  woman  who 
allowed  circumstance  to  take  such  turns  would  find  no 
one  to  excuse  her.  He  was  clearly  feeling,  too,  a  vindictive 
anger  against  Jerry  Corven,  and  a  determination  that  the 
fellow  should  not  be  successful  if  he  could  help  it.  Faintly 
amused  at  an  attitude  so  male,  Dinny  felt  a  sort  of  admira- 
tion at  the  painful  integrity  with  which  he  was  grasping 
the  shadow  and  letting  the  substance  go.  To  her  father's 
generation  divorce  still  seemed  the  outward  and  visible 
sign  of  inner  and  spiritual  disgrace.  To  herself  love  was 
love  and,  when  it  became  aversion,  ceased  to  justify  sexual 
relationship.  She  had,  in  fact,  been  more  shocked  by 
Clare's  yielding  to  Jerry  Corven  in  her  rooms  than  by 
her  leaving  him  in  Ceylon.  The  divorce  suits  she  had 
occasionally  followed  in  the  papers  had  done  nothing  to 
help  her  believe  that  marriages  were  made  in  heaven. 
But  she  recognised  the  feelings  of  those  brought  up  in 
an  older  atmosphere,  and  avoided  adding  to  the  confusion 
and  trouble  in  her  people's  minds.  The  line  she  took  was 
more  practical:  The  thing  would  soon  be  over  one  way  or 
the  other,  and  probably  the  otherl  People  paid  very  little 
attention  to  other  people's  affairs  nowadays! 

"Whatl"  said  the  General  sardonically.  "  'Night  in  a 
203 


204  OVER     THE     RIVER 

car' — it's  the  perfect  headline.  Sets  everybody  thinking  at 
once  how  they  themselves  would  have  behaved." 

She  had  no  answer,  but:  "They'll  make  a  symposium  of 
it,  darling:  The  Home  Secretary,  the  Dean  of  St.  Paul's, 
the  Princess  Elizabeth." 

She  was  disturbed  when  told  that  Dornford  had  been 
asked  to  Condaford  for  Easter. 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind,  Dinny;  we  didn't  know  whether 
you'd  be  here  or  not." 

"I  can't  use  the  expression  'I'm  agreeable'  even  to  you, 
Mother." 

"Well,  darling,  one  of  these  days  you  must  go  down  into 
the  battle  again." 

Dinny  bit  her  lip  and  did  not  answer.  It  was  true,  and 
the  more  disquieting.  Coming  from  her  gentle  and 
unmanaging  mother,  the  words  stung. 

Battle!  Life,  then,  was  like  the  war.  It  struck  you  down 
into  hospital,  turned  you  out  therefrom  into  the  ranks 
again.  Her  mother  and  father  would  hate  'to  lose  her,'  but 
they  clearly  wanted  her  'to  go.'  And  this  with  Clare's 
failure  written  on  the  walll 

Easter  came  with  a  wind  'fresh  to  strong.'  Clare  arrived 
by  train  on  the  Saturday  morning,  Dornford  by  car  in  the 
afternoon.  He  greeted  Dinny  as  if  doubtful  of  his  welcome. 

He  had  found  himself  a  house.  It  was  on  Campden  Hill. 
He  had  been  terribly  anxious  to  know  Clare's  opinion  of  it, 
and  she  had  spent  a  Sunday  afternoon  going  over  it  with 
him. 

"  'Eminently  desirable,'  Dinny.  'South  aspect;  garage 
and  stabling  for  two  horses;  good  garden;  all  the  usual 
offices,  centrally  heated,'  and  otherwise  well-bred.  He 
thinks  of  going  in  towards  the  end  of  May.  It  has  an  old 
tiled  roof,  so  I  put  him  on  to  French  grey  for  shutters. 
Really,  it's  rather  nice,  and  roomy." 

"It  sounds  'marvellous.'  I  suppose  you'll  be  going  there 
instead  of  to  the  Temple?" 


OVERTHERIVER  205 

"Yes,  he's  moving  into  Pump  Court,  or  Brick  Buildings 
— I  can't  remember.  When  you  think  of  it,  Dinny,  why 
shouldn't  he  have  been  made  co-respondent  instead  of 
Tony?  I  see  much  more  of  him." 

Otherwise  allusion  to  'the  case'  was  foregone.  It  would 
be  one  of  the  first  after  the  undefended  suits  were  disposed 
of,  and  calm  before  the  storm  was  reigning. 

Dornford,  indeed,  referred  to  it  after  lunch  on  Sunday. 

"Shall  you  be  in  court  during  your  sister's  case,  Dinny?" 

"I  must." 

"I'm  afraid  it  may  make  you  very  wild.  They've  briefed 
Brough,  and  he's  particularly  exasperating  when  he  likes 
with  a  simple  denial  like  this;  that's  what  they'll  rely  on. 
Clare  must  try  and  keep  cool." 

Dinny  remembered  Very  young*  Roger's  wishing  it  had 
been  herself  and  not  Clare. 

"I  hope  you'll  tell  her  that." 

"I'll  take  her  through  her  evidence,  and  cross-examine 
her  on  it.  But  one  can't  tell  the  line  Brough  will  take." 

"Shall  you  be  in  court  yourself?" 

"If  I  can,  but  the  odds  are  I  shan't  be  free." 

"How  long  will  it  last?" 

"More  than  a  day,  I'm  afraid." 

Dinny  sighed. 

"Poor  Dadl  Has  Ckre  got  a  good  man?" 

"Yes — Instone,  very  much  hampered  by  her  refusal  to 
talk  about  Ceylon." 

"That's  definite,  you  know.   She  won't." 

"I  like  her  for  it,  but  I'm  afraid  it's  fatal." 

"So  be  itl"  said  Dinny:  "I  want  her  free.  The  person 
most  to  be  pitied  is  Tony  Croom." 

"Why?" 

"He's  the  only  one  of  the  three  in  love." 

"I  see,"  said  Dornford,  and  was  silent.  Dinny  felt  sorry. 

"Would  you  care  for  a  walk?" 

"Simply  love  itl" 


206  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"We'll  go  up  through  the  woods,  and  I'll  show  you 
where  the  Cherrell  killed  the  boar  and  won  the  de  Camp- 
fort — our  heraldic  myth.  Had  you  any  family  legend  in 
Shropshire?" 

"Yes,  but  the  place  has  gone — sold  when  my  father  died; 
six  of  us  and  no  money." 

"Ohl"  said  Dinny,  "horrible  when  families  are  up- 
rooted." 

Dornford  smiled. 

"Live  donkeys  are  better  than  dead  lions." 

While  they  were  going  up  through  the  coverts  he  talked 
about  his  new  house,  subtly  'pumping'  her  for  expressions 
of  her  taste. 

They  came  out  into  a  sunken  roadway  leading  on  to  a 
thorn-bush-covered  down. 

"Here's  the  place.  Virgin  forest  then,  no  doubt.  We 
used  to  picnic  here  as  children." 

Dornford  took  a  deep  breath.  "Real  English  view — 
nothing  spectacular,  but  no  end  good." 

"Lovable." 

"That's  the  word." 

He  spread  his  raincoat  on  the  bank.  "Sit  down  and  let's 
have  a  smoke." 

Dinny  sat  down. 

"Come  on  part  of  it  yourself,  the  ground's  not  too  dry." 

While  he  sat  there,  with  his  hands  hugging  his  knees  and 
his  pipe  fuming  gently,  she  thought:  'The  most  self- 
controlled  man  I  ever  came  across,  and  the  gentlest,  except 
Uncle  Adrian.' 

"If  only  a  boar  would  come  along,"  he  said,  "it  would  be 
primel" 

"Member  of  Parliament  kills  boar  on  spur  of  Chilterns," 
murmured  Dinny,  but  did  not  add:  "Wins  lady." 

"Wind's  off  the  gorse.  Another  three  weeks  and 
it'll  be  green  down  there.  Pick  of  the  year — this,  or 
the  Indian  summer,  I  never  know.  And  yours,  Dinny?" 


OVER     THE     RIVER  2OJ 

"Blossom  time." 

"Um;  and  harvest.  This  ought  to  be  glorious  then — 
quite  a  lot  of  cornland." 

"It  was  just  ripe  when  the  war  broke  out.  We  came  up 
picnicking  two  days  before,  and  stayed  till  the  moon  rose. 
How  much  do  you  think  people  really  fought  for  England, 
Mr.  Dornford?" 

"Practically  all — for  some  nook  or  other  of  it;  many  just 
for  the  streets,  and  buses,  and  smell  of  fried  fish.  I  fought 
mainly,  I  think,  for  Shrewsbury  and  Oxford.  But  Eustace 
is  my  name." 

"I'll  remember.  We'd  better  go  down  now,  or  we  shall 
be  late  for  tea." 

And,  all  the  way  home,  they  contended  with  birds'  songs 
and  the  names  of  plants. 

"Thanks  for  my  treat,"  he  said. 

"I've  enjoyed  it,  too." 

That  walk  had,  indeed,  a  curiously  soothing  effect  on 
Dinny.  So,  she  could  talk  with  him  without  question  of 
love-making. 

Bank  holiday  was  sou'-westerly.  Dornford  spent  a  quiet 
hour  with  Clare  over  her  evidence,  and  then  went  riding 
with  her  in  the  rain.  Dinny's  morning  went  in  arranging 
for  spring  cleaning  and  the  chintzing  of  the  furniture  while 
the  family  were  up  in  town.  Her  mother  and  father  were  to 
stay  at  Mount  Street,  she  and  Clare  with  Fleur.  In  the 
afternoon  she  pottered  with  the  General  round  the  new 
pigsties,  progressing  as  slowly  as  a  local  builder,  anxious  to 
keep  his  men  in  work,  could  make  them.  She  was  not  alone 
again  with  Dornford  until  after  tea. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  think  your  sister  will  do,  if  she  keeps 
her  temper." 

"Clare  can  be  very  cutting." 

"Yes,  and  there's  an  underlying  sentiment  among 
lawyers  against  being  cut  up  by  outsiders  in  each  other's 
presence;  even  judges  have  it." 


208  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"They  won't  find  her  a  'butterfly  on  the  wheel/  " 

"It's  no  good  getting  up  against  institutions,  you  know; 
they  carry  too  many  guns." 

"Oh!  well,"  said  Dinny,  with  a  sigh,  "it's  on  the  knees  of 
the  gods." 

"Which  are  deuced  slippery.  Could  I  have  a  photograph 
of  you,  preferably  as  a  little  girl?". 

"I'll  see  what  we've  got — I'm  afraid  only  snaps;  but  I 
think  there's  one  where  my  nose  doesn't  turn  up  too 
much." 

She  went  to  a  cabinet,  took  a  drawer  out  bodily,  and  put 
it  on  the  covered  billiard  table. 

"The  family  snap-hoard — choose!" 

He  stood  at  her  side  and  they  turned  them  over. 

"I  took  most  of  them,  so  there  aren't  many  of  me." 

"Is  that  your  brother?" 

"Yes,  and  this — just  before  he  went  to  the  war.  This  is 
Clare  the  week  before  she  was  married.  Here's  one  of  me, 
with  some  hair.  Dad  took  that  when  he  came  home,  the 
spring  after  the  war." 

"When  you  were  thirteen?" 

"Fourteen  nearly.  It's  supposed  to  be  like  Joan  of  Arc 
being  taken  in  by  voices." 

"It's  lovely.  I  shall  get  it  enlarged." 

He  held  it  to  the  light.  The  figure  was  turned  three 
quarters,  and  the  face  lifted  to  the  branches  of  a  fruit  tree  in 
blossom.  The  whole  of  the  little  picture  was  very  much 
alive;  the  sun  having  fallen  on  the  blossom  and  on  Dinny's 
hair,  which  hung  to  her  waist. 

"Mark  the  rapt  look,"  she  said;  "there  must  have  been  a 
cat  up  the  tree." 

He  put  it  into  his  pocket  and  returned  to  the  table. 

"And  this?"  he  said:  "Could  I  have  this  too?" 

The  snap  was  one  of  her  a  little  older,  but  still  with 
her  hair  uncut,  full  face,  hands  clasped  in  front,  head 
a  little  down  and  eyes  looking  up. 


OVER     THE     RIVER  209 

"No,  I'm  sorry.  I  didn't  know  it  was  there."  It  was  the 
counterpart  of  one  she  had  sent  to  Wilfrid. 

Dornford  nodded;  and  she  realised  that  in  some  uncanny 
way  he  knew  why.  Seized  with  compunction,  she  said: 

"Oh!  yes,  you  can.  It  doesn't  matter,  now."  And  she 
put  it  into  his  hand.  .  .  . 

After  Dornford  and  Ckre  had  left  on  Tuesday  morning, 
Dinny  studied  a  map,  took  the  car  and  set  out  for  Bablock 
Hythe.  She  did  not  care  for  driving,  but  she  was  moved  by 
the  thought  of  Tony  Groom  deprived  of  his  week-end 
glimpse  of  Clare.  The  twenty-five  miles  took  her  well  over 
an  hour.  At  the  inn  she  was  told  that  he  would  be  at  his 
cottage,  and,  leaving  the  car,  she  walked  over.  He  was  in 
shirt-sleeves  distempering  the  walls  of  the  low,  timbered 
sitting-room.  From  the  doorway  she  could  see  the  pipe 
wobble  in  his  mouth. 

"Anything  wrong  with  Clare?"  he  said  at  once. 

"Nothing  whatever.  I  just  thought  I'd  like  to  have  a 
look  at  your  habitat." 

"How  terribly  nice  of  youl  I'm  doing  a  job  of  work." 

"Clearly." 

"Clare  likes  duck's-egg  green;  this  is  the  nearest  I  can 
get  to  it." 

"It  goes  splendidly  with  the  beams." 

Young  Croom  said,  looking  straight  before  him,  "I 
can't  believe  I'll  ever  get  her  here,  but  I  can't  help  pre- 
tending; otherwise  the  sand  would  be  clean  out  of  my  dolly." 

Dinny  put  her  hand  on  his  sleeve. 

"You're  not  going  to  lose  your  job.  I've  seen  Jack 
Muskham." 

"Already?  You're  marvellous.  I'll  just  wash  off  and  get 
my  coat  on,  and  show  you  round." 

Dinny  waited  in  the  doorway  where  a  streak  of  sun- 
light fell.  The  two  cottages,  knocked  into  one,  still  had 
their  ramblers,  wistaria,  and  thatched  roof.  It  would  be 
very  pretty. 


2IO  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Now,"  said  young  Groom.  "The  boxes  are  all  finished, 
and  the  paddocks  have  got  their  water.  In  fact,  we  only 
want  the  animals;  but  they're  not  to  be  here  till  May. 
Taking  no  risks.  Well,  I'd  rather  have  this  case  over  first. 
You've  come  from  Condaford?" 

"Yes.  Clare  went  back  this  morning.  She  would  have 
sent  her  love,  but  she  didn't  know  I  was  coming." 

"Why  did  you  come?"  said  young  Groom  bluntly. 

"Fellow  feeling." 

He  thrust  his  arm  within  hers. 

"Yes.  So  sorry!  Do  you  find,"  he  added  suddenly, 
"that  thinking  of  other  people  suffering  helps?" 

"Not  much." 

"No.  Wanting  someone  is  like  tooth  or  ear  ache.  You 
can't  get  away  from  it." 

Dinny  nodded. 

"This  time  of  year,  too,"  said  young  Groom,  with  a 
laugh.  "The  difference  between  being  'fond  of  and 
'loving'l  I'm  getting  desperate,  Dinny.  I  don't  see  how 
Clare  can  ever  change.  If  she  were  ever  going  to  love  me, 
she  would  by  now.  If  she's  not  going  to  love  me,  I 
couldn't  stick  it  here.  I'd  have  to  get  away  to  Kenya  or 
somewhere." 

Looking  at  his  eyes,  ingenuously  hanging  on  her 
answer,  her  nerve  went.  It  was  her  own  sister;  but  what 
did  she  know  of  her,  when  it  came  to  the  depths? 

"You  never  know.  I  wouldn't  give  up." 

Young  Groom  pressed  her  arm. 

"Sorry  to  be  talking  of  my  mania.  Only,  when  one  longs 
day  and  night " 

"I  know." 

"I  must  buy  a  goat  or  two.  Horses  don't  like  donkeys; 
and  as  a  rule  they  shy  at  goats;  but  I  want  to  make  these 
paddocks  feel  homy.  I've  got  two  cats  for  the  boxes. 
What  do  you  think?" 

"I  only  know  about  dogs,  and — pigs  theoretically." 


OVER     THE     RIVER  211 

"Come  and  have  lunch.  They've  got  a  rather  good 
ham." 

He  did  not  again  speak  of  Clare;  and,  after  partaking 
together  of  the  rather  good  ham,  he  put  Dinny  into  her  car 
and  drove  her  the  first  five  miles  of  the  way  home,  saying 
that  he  wanted  a  walk. 

"I  think  no  end  of  you  for  coming,"  he  said,  squeezing 
her  hand  hard:  "It  was  most  frightfully  sporting.  Give  my 
love  to  Clare;"  and  he  went  off,  waving  his  hand,  as  he 
turned  into  a  field-path. 

She  was  absent-minded  during  the  rest  of  the  drive.  The 
day,  though  still  south-westerly,  had  gleams  of  sunlight, 
and  sharp  showers  of  hail.  Putting  the  car  away  she  got  the 
spaniel  Foch  and  went  out  to  the  new  pigsties.  Her  father 
was  there,  brooding  over  their  construction  like  the 
Lieutenant-General  he  was,  very  neat,  resourceful,  faddy. 
Doubtful  whether  they  would  ever  contain  pigs,  Dinny 
slipped  her  arm  through  his. 

"How's  the  battle  of  Pigsville?" 

"One  of  the  bricklayers  was  run  down  yesterday,  and 
that  carpenter  there  has  cut  his  thumb.  I've  been  talking  to 
old  Bellows,  but — dash  it! — you  can't  blame  him  for 
wanting  to  keep  his  men  in  work.  I  sympathise  with  a  chap 
who  sticks  by  his  own  men,  and  won't  have  union  labour. 
He  says  he'll  be  finished  by  the  end  of  next  month,  but  he 
won't." 

"No,"  said  Dinny,  "he's  already  said  that  twice." 

"Where  have  you  been?" 

"Over  to  see  Tony  Croom." 

"Any  development?" 

"No.  I  just  wanted  to  tell  him  that  I've  seen  Mr. 
Muskham,  and  he  won't  lose  his  job." 

"Glad  of  that.  He's  got  grit,  that  boy.  Pity  he  didn't  go 
into  the  army." 

"I'm  very  sorry  for  him,  Dad;  he  really  is  in  love." 

"Still  a  common  complaint/'  said   the   General  drily: 


212  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Did  you  see  they've  more  than  balanced  the  Budget?  It's 
an  hysterical  age,  with  these  European  crises  for  breakfast 
every  other  morning." 

"That's  the  papers.  The  French  papers,  where  the  print 
is  so  much  smaller,  don't  excite  one  half  so  much.  I 
couldn't  get  the  wind  up  at  all  when  I  was  reading 
them." 

"Papers,  and  wireless;  everything  known  before  it 
happens;  and  headlines  twice  the  size  of  the  events.  You'd 
think,  to  judge  from  the  speeches  and  the  'leaders,'  that  the 
world  had  never  been  in  a  hole  before.  The  world's  always 
in  a  hole,  only  in  old  days  people  didn't  make  a  song  about 
it." 

"But  without  the  song  would  they  have  balanced  the 
Budget,  dear?" 

"No,  it's  the  way  we  do  things  nowadays.  But  it's  not 
English." 

"Do  we  know  what's  English  and  what  isn't,  Dad?" 

The  General  wrinkled  up  his  weathered  face,  and  a  smile 
crept  about  the  wrinkles.  He  pointed  at  the  pigsties. 

"Those  are.  Done  in  the  end,  but  not  before  they  must 
be." 

"Do  you  like  that?" 

"No;  but  I  like  this  hysterical  way  of  trying  to  cure  it 
even  less.  You'd  think  we'd  never  been  short  of  money 
before.  Why,  Edward  the  Third  owed  money  all  over 
Europe,  The  Stuarts  were  always  bankrupt.  And  after 
Napoleon  we  had  years  to  which  these  last  years  have  been 
nothing,  but  they  didn't  have  it  for  breakfast  every 
morning." 

"When  ignorance  was  blissl" 

"Well,  I  dislike  the  mixture  of  hysteria  and  bluff  we've 
got  now." 

"Would  you  suppress  the  voice  that  breathes  o'er 
Eden?" 

"Wireless?    'The -old  order  changeth,  yielding  place 


OVER     THE     RIVER  21$ 

to  new.  And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways,'  "  quoted 
the  General,  "  'lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt 
the  world/  I  remember  a  sermon  of  old  Butler's  at 
Harrow  on  that  text — one  of  his  best,  too.  I'm  not  hide- 
bound, Dinny,  at  least  I  hope  not.  Only  I  think  every- 
thing's talked  out  too  much.  It's  talked  out  so  much  that 
it's  not  felt." 

"I  believe  in  the  Age,  Dad.  It's  dropped  its  superfluous 
clothes.  Look  at  those  old  pictures  in  The  Times  lately. 
You  smelt  dogma  and  flannel  petticoat." 

"Not  flannel,"  said  the  General,  "in  my  day." 

"You  should  know,  dear." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  Dinny,  I  believe  mine  was  the 
really  revolutionary  generation.  You  saw  that  play 
about  Browning?  There  you  had  it;  but  that  was  all 
gone  before  I  went  to  Sandhurst.  We  thought  as  we 
liked,  and  we  acted  as  we  thought,  but  we  still  didn't  talk. 
Now  they  talk  before  they  think,  and  when  it  comes  to 
action,  they  act  much  as  we  did,  if  they  act  at  all.  In  fact, 
the  chief  difference  between  now  and  fifty  years  ago  is  the 
freedom  of  expression;  it's  so  free  now,  that  it  takes  the  salt 
out  of  things." 

"That's  profound,  Dad." 

"But  not  new;  I've  read  it  a  dozen  times." 

"  'You  don't  think  the  war  had  any  great  influence,  then, 
sir?'  They  always  ask  that  in  interviews." 

"The  war?  It's  influence  is  pretty  well  over  by  now. 
Besides,  the  people  of  my  generation  were  already  too  set. 
The  next  generation  was  wiped  or  knocked  out " 

"Not  the  females." 

"No,  they  ran  riot  a  bit,  but  they  weren't  really  in  the 
thing.  As  for  your  generation,  the  war's  a  word." 

"Well,  thank  you,  dear,"  said  Dinny:  "It's  been 
very  instructive,  but  it's  going  to  hail.  Come  along, 
FochI" 

The  General  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  coat  and  crossed 


214  OVER     THE     RIVER 

over  to  the  carpenter  who  had  cut  his  thumb.  Dinny 
saw  him  examining  the  bandage.  She  saw  the  carpenter 
smile,  and  her  father  pat  him  on  the  shoulder. 

*His  men  must  have  liked  him,'  she  thought.   'He  may 
be  an  old  buffer,  but  he's  a  nice  one.' 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

IF  Art  is  long,  Law  is  longer.  The  words  Corven  v.  Corven 
and  Groom  rewarded  no  eye  scanning  the  Cause  List  in  The 
Times  newspaper.  Undefended  suits  in  vast  numbers 
occupied  the  attention  of  Mr.  Justice  Co  veil.  At  Dornford's 
invitation  Dinny  and  Ckre  came  to  the  entrance  of  his 
court,  and  stood  for  five  minutes  just  inside,  as  members  of 
a  cricket  team  will  go  and  inspect  a  pitch  before  playing  in 
a  match.  The  judge  sat  so  low  that  little  but  his  face  could 
be  seen;  but  Dinny  noticed  that  above  Clare's  head  in  the  wit- 
ness-box would  be  a  sort  of  canopy,  or  protection  from  rain. 

"If,"  said  Dornford,  as  they  came  out,  "you  stand  well 
back,  Clare,  your  face  will  be  hardly  visible.  But  your 
voice  you  should  pitch  so  that  it  always  carries  to  the  judge. 
He  gets  grumpy  if  he  can't  hear." 

It  was  on  the  day  after  this  that  Dinny  received  a  note 
delivered  by  hand  at  South  Square. 

"Burton's  Club:  13.^.32. 
"DEAR  DINNY — 

"I  should  be  very  glad  if  I  could  see  you  for  a  few 
minutes.    Name  your  own  time  and  place  and  I  will  be 
there.  Needless  to  say  it  concerns  Clare. 
"Sincerely  yours, 

"GERALD  CORVEN." 

Michael  was  out,  but  she  consulted  Fleur. 

"I  should  certainly  see  him,  Dinny.  It  may  be  a  death- 
bed repentance.  Let  him  come  here  when  you  know  Clare 
will  be  out." 

"I  don't  think  I'll  risk  his  seeing  her.  I'd  rather  meet  him 
somewhere  in  the  open." 

215 


2l6  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Well,  there's  the  Achilles,  or  the  Rima." 

"The  Rima,"  said  Dinny.  "We  can  walk  away  from  it." 

She  appointed  the  following  afternoon  at  three  o'clock, 
and  continued  to  wonder  what  he  wanted. 

The  day  was  an  oasis  of  warmth  in  that  bleak  April. 
Arriving  at  the  Rima,  she  saw  him  at  once,  leaning 
against  the  railing  with  his  back  to  that  work  of  art.  He  was 
smoking  a  cigarette  through  a  short  well-coloured  holder 
in  meerschaum,  and  looked  so  exactly  as  when  she  had  seen 
him  last  that,  for  no  reason,  she  received  a  sort  of  shock. 

He  did  not  offer  to  take  her  hand. 

"Very  good  of  you  to  come,  Dinny.  Shall  we  stroll  and 
talk  as  we  go?" 

They  walked  towards  the  Serpentine. 

"About  this  case,"  said  Corven,  suddenly,  "I  don't  want 
to  bring  it  a  bit,  you  know." 

She  stole  a  look  at  him. 

"Why  do  you,  then?  The  charges  are  not  true." 

"I'm  advised  that  they  are." 

"The  premises  may  be;  the  conclusions,  no." 

"If  I  withdraw  the  thing,  will  Clare  come  back  to  me,  on 
her  own  terms?" 

"I  can  ask  her,  but  I  don't  think  so.  I  shouldn't  myself." 

"What  an  implacable  family!" 

Dinny  did  not  answer. 

"Is  she  in  love  with  this  young  Croom?" 

"I  can't  discuss  their  feelings,  if  they  have  any." 

"Can't  we  speak  frankly,  Dinny?  There's  no  one  to  hear 
•us  except  those  ducks." 

"Claiming  damages  has  not  improved  our  feelings 
towards  you." 

"Oh!  that!  I'm  willing  to  withdraw  everything,  and  risk 
her  having  kicked  over,  if  she'll  come  back." 

"In  other  words,"  said  Dinny,  gazing  straight  before 
her,  "the  case  you  have  framed — I  believe  that  is  the  word 
— is  a  sort  of  blackmailing  device." 


OVER     THE     RIVER  2iy 

He  looked  at  her  through  narrowed  eyes. 

"Ingenious  notion.  It  didn't  occur  to  me.  No,  the  fact 
is,  knowing  Clare  better  than  my  solicitors  and  the  enquiry 
agents,  I'm  not  too  convinced  that  the  evidence  means 
what  it  seems  to." 

"Thank  you." 

"Yes,  but  I  told  you  before,  or  Clare  anyway,  that  I 
can't  and  won't  go  on  with  nothing  settled,  one  way  or  the 
other.  If  she'll  come  back  I'll  wipe  the  whole  thing  out.  If 
she  won't,  it  must  take  its  chance.  That's  not  wholly 
unreasonable,  and  it's  not  blackmail." 

"And  suppose  she  wins,  will  you  be  any  further  on?" 

"No." 

"You  could  free  yourself  and  her  at  any  time,  if  you 
liked." 

"At  a  price  I  don't  choose  to  pay.  Besides,  that  sounds 
extremely  like  collusion — another  awkward  word,  Dinny." 

Dinny  stood  still. 

"Well,  I  know  what  you  want,  and  I'll  ask  Clare.  And 
now  I'll  say  good-bye.  I  don't  see  that  talking  further  will 
do  any  good." 

He  stood  looking  at  her,  and  she  was  moved  by  the 
expression  on  his  face.  Pain  and  puzzlement  were  peering 
through  its  hardwood  browned  mask. 

"I'm  sorry  things  are  as  they  are,"  she  said,  impulsively. 

"One's  nature  is  a  hell  of  a  thing,  Dinny,  and  one's  never 
free  from  it.  Well,  good-bye  and  good  luckl" 

She  put  out  her  hand.  He  gave  it  a  squeeze,  turned  and 
walked  off. 

Dinny  stood  for  some  unhappy  moments  beside  a  little 
birch  tree  whose  budding  leaves  seemed  to  tremble  up 
towards  the  sunshine.  Queerl  To  be  sorry  for  him,  for 
Clare,  for  young  Croom,  and  be  able  to  do  nothing  to  help! 

She  walked  back  to  South  Square  as  fast  as  she  could. 

Fleur  met  her  with:  "Well?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  can  only  talk  to  Clare  about  it." 


2l8  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"I  suppose  it's  an  offer  to  drop  it  if  Clare  will  go  back. 
If  she's  wise  she  will." 

Dinny  closed  her  lips  resolutely. 

She  waited  till  bed-time,  and  then  went  to  Clare's  room. 
Her  sister  had  just  got  into  bed,  on  the  foot  of  which  Dinny 
sat  down,  and  began  at  once: 

"Jerry  asked  me  to  see  him.  We  met  in  Hyde  Park.  He 
says  he'll  drop  the  case  if  you'll  go  back — on  your  own 
terms." 

Clare  raised  her  knees  and  clasped  them  with  her  hands. 

"Oh!   And  what  did  you  say?" 

"That  I'd  ask  you." 

"Did  you  gather  why?" 

"Partly,  I  think  he  really  wants  you;  partly,  he  doesn't 
much  believe  in  the  evidence." 

"Ah!"  said  Clare,  drily:  "Nor  do  I.  But  I'm  not  going 
back." 

"I  told  him  I  didn't  think  you  would.  He  said  we  were 
'implacable.'  " 

Clare  uttered  a  little  laugh. 

"No,  Dinny.  I've  been  through  all  the  horrors  of  this 
case.  I  feel  quite  stony,  don't  care  whether  we  lose  or  win. 
In  fact,  I  believe  I'd  rather  we  lost." 

Dinny  grasped  one  of  her  sister's  feet  through  the  bed- 
clothes. She  was  in  two  minds  whether  to  speak  of  the 
feeling  Corven's  face  had  roused  in  her. 

Clare  said  uncannily: 

"I'm  always  amused  when  people  think  they  know  how 
husbands  and  wives  ought  to  behave  towards  each  other. 
Fleur  was  telling  me  about  her  father  and  his  first  wife;  she 
seemed  to  think  the  woman  made  a  great  fuss  for  nothing 
much.  All  I  can  say  is  that  to  think  you  can  judge  anybody 
else's  case  is  just  self-righteous  idiocy.  There's  never  any 
evidence  to  judge  from,  and  until  cine-cameras  are  in- 
stalled in  bedrooms,"  she  added,  "there  never  will  be.  You 
might  let  him  know,  Dinny,  that  there's  nothing  doing." 


OVER     THE     RIVER  219 

Dinny  got  up. 

"I  will.  If  only  the  thing  were  overl" 

"Yes,"  said  Clare,  tossing  back  her  hair,  "if  only ! 

But  whether  we  shall  be  any  further  on,  when  it  is,  I  don't 
know.  God  bless  the  Courts  of  Law." 

That  bitter  invocation  went  up  daily  from  Dinny,  too, 
during  the  next  fortnight,  while  the  undefended  causes,  of 
which  her  sister's  might  have  been  one,  were  softly  and 
almost  silently  vanishing  away.  Her  note  to  Corven  said 
simply  that  her  sister  had  answered:  'No.'  No  reply  came 
to  it. 

At  Dornford's  request  she  went  with  Clare  to  see  his  new 
house  on  Campden  Hill.  To  know  that  he  had  taken  it  with 
the  view  of  having  a  home  for  her,  if  she  would  consent  to 
share  it,  kept  her  expressionless,  except  to  say  that  it  was  all 
very  nice,  and  to  recommend  a  bird  shelter  in  the  garden. 
It  was  roomy,  secluded,  airy,  and  the  garden  sloped  towards 
the  south.  Distressed  at  being  so  colourless,  she  was  glad 
to  come  away;  but  the  dashed  and  baffled  look  on  his  face 
when  she  said:  'Good-bye'  hurt  her.  In  their  bus,  going 
home,  Clare  said: 

"The  more  I  see  of  Dornford,  Dinny,  the  more  I  believe 
you  could  put  up  with  him.  He's  got  very  light  hands;  he 
lets  your  mouth  alone.  He  really  is  a  bit  of  an  angel." 

"I'm  sure  he  is."  And  through  Dinny's  mind,  in  the 
jaunting  bus,  passed  and  passed  four  lines  of  verse: 

'The  bank  is  steep  and  wide  the  river  flows — 
Are  there  fair  pastures  on  the  farther  shore? 
And  shall  the  halting  kine  adventure  those 
Or  wander  barren  pastures  evermore?' 

But  on  her  face  was  that  withdrawn  expression  which 
Clare  knew  better  than  to  try  and  penetrate. 

Waiting  for  an  event,  even  when  it  primarily  concerns 
others,  is  a  process  little  desirable.  For  Dinny  it  had  the 
advantage  of  taking  her  thoughts  off  her  own  existence  and 


220  OVER     THE     RIVER 

concentrating  them  on  her  people's.  The  family  name,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  experience,  was  confronted  with  a 
really  besmirching  publicity,  and  she  the  chief  recipient  of 
her  clan's  reaction.  She  felt  thankful  that  Hubert  was  not 
in  England.  He  would  have  been  so  impatient  and  upset. 
In  the  publicity  attendant  on  his  own  trouble,  four  years 
ago,  there  had  been  much  more  danger  of  disaster,  but 
much  less  danger  of  disgrace.  For  however  one  might  say 
that  divorce  was  nothing  in  these  days,  a  traditional 
stigma  still  clung  to  it  in  a  country  far  from  being  as 
modern  as  it  supposed  itself  to  be.  The  Charwells  of 
Condaford,  at  all  events,  had  their  pride  and  their  prej  udices, 
above  all  they  loathed  publicity. 

When  Dinny,  for  instance,  went  to  lunch  at  St.  Augus- 
tine's-in-the-Meads,  she  found  a  very  peculiar  atmosphere. 
It  was  as  if  her  Uncle  and  Aunt  had  said  to  each  other:  'This 
thing  has  to  be,  we  suppose,  but  we  can't  pretend  either 
to  understand  or  to  approve  of  it.'  With  no  bluff  matter- 
of-fact  condemnation,  nor  anything  churchy  or  shocked 
about  their  attitude,  they  conveyed  to  Dinny  the  thought 
that  Clare  might  have  been  better  occupied  than  in  getting 
into  such  a  position. 

Walking  away  with  Hilary  to  see  a  party  of  youths  off  to 
Canada  from  Euston  Station,  Dinny  was  ill  at  ease,  for  she 
had  true  affection  and  regard  for  her  overworked  un- 
parsonical  Uncle.  Of  all  the  members  of  her  duty-bound 
family,  he  most  embodied  the  principle  of  uncomplaining 
service,  and  however  she  might  doubt  whether  the  people 
he  worked  for  were  not  happier  than  he  was  himself,  she 
instinctively  believed  that  he  lived  a  real  life  in  a  world 
where  not  very  much  was  'real.'  Alone  with  her  he  voiced 
his  feelings  more  precisely. 

"What  I  don't  like,  Dinnyi  about  this  business  of 
Clare's  is  the  way  it  will  reduce  her  in  the  public  eye  to  the 
level  of  the  idle  young  woman  who  has  nothing  better  to 
do  than  to  get  into  matrimonial  scrapes.  Honestly,  I'd 


OVER     THE     RIVER  221 

prefer  her  passionately  in  love  and  flinging  her  cap  over  the 
windmill." 

"Cheer  up,  Uncle,"  murmured  Dinny,  "and  give  her 
time.  That  may  yet  come." 

Hilary  smiled. 

"Well!  Welll  But  you  see  what  I  mean.  The  public  eye 
is  a  mean,  cold,  parroty  thing;  it  loves  to  see  the  worst  of 
everything.  Where  there's  real  love  I  can  accept  most 
things;  but  I  don't  like  messing  about  with  sex.  It's 
unpleasant." 

"I  don't  think  you're  being  just  to  Clare,"  said  Dinny 
with  a  sigh;  "she  cut  loose  for  real  reasons;  and  you  ought 
to  know,  Uncle,  that  attractive  young  women  can't  remain 
entirely  unfollowed." 

"Well,"  said  Hilary  shrewdly,  "I  perceive  that  you're 
sitting  on  a  tale  you  could  unfold.  Here  we  are.  If  you 
knew  the  bother  I've  had  to  get  these  youths  to  consent  to 
go,  and  the  authorities  to  consent  to  take  them,  you'd 
realise  why  I  wish  I  were  a  mushroom,  springing  up  over- 
night and  being  eaten  fresh  for  breakfast." 

Whereon,  they  entered  the  station,  and  proceeded 
towards  the  Liverpool  train.  A  little  party  of  seven  youths 
in  cloth  caps,  half  in  and  half  out  of  a  third-class  carriage, 
were  keeping  up  their  spirits  in  truly  English  fashion,  by 
passing  remarks  on  each  other's  appearance  and  saying  at 
intervals:  "Are  we  daown-'earted?  Naool" 

They  greeted  Hilary  with  the  words: 

"  'Ello,  Padrel  .  .  .  Zero  hourl  Over  the  top  I  ... 
'Ave  a  fag,  sir?" 

Hilary  took  the  'fag.'  And  Dinny,  who  stood  a  little 
apart,  admired  the  way  in  which  he  became  at  once  an 
integral  part  of  the  group. 

"Wish  you  was  comin'  too,  sirl" 

"Wish  I  were,  Jack." 

"Leavin'  old  England  for  ever!" 

"Good  old  Englandl" 


222  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Sir?" 

"Yes,  Tommy?" 

She  lost  the  next  remarks,  slightly  embarrassed  by  the 
obvious  interest  she  was  arousing. 

"Dinnyl" 

She  moved  up  to  the  carriage. 

"Shake  hands  with  these  young  men.  My  niece." 

In  the  midst  of  a  queer  hush  she  shook  the  seven  hands 
of  the  seven  capless  youths,  and  seven  times  said:  "Good 
luckl" 

There  was  a  rush  to  get  into  the  carriage,  a  burst  of  noise 
from  uncouth  mouths,  a  ragged  cheer,  and  the  train  moved. 
She  stood  by  Hilary's  side,  with  a  slight  choke  in  her 
throat,  waving  her  hand  to  the  caps  and  faces  stretched 
through  the  window. 

"They'll  all  be  seasick  to-night,"  muttered  Hilary, 
"that's  one  comfort.  Nothing  like  it  to  prevent  you  from 
thinking  of  the  future  or  the  past." 

She  went  into  Adrian's  after  leaving  him,  and  was  rather 
disconcerted  to  find  her  Uncle  Lionel  there.  They  stopped 
dead  in  their  discussion.  Then  the  Judge  said: 

"Perhaps  you  can  tell  us,  Dinny:  Is  there  any  chance  at 
all  of  mediating  between  those  two  before  this  unpleasant 
business  comes  on?" 

"None,  Uncle." 

"OhI  Then  seeing  as  I  do  rather  much  of  the  law,  I 
should  suggest  Clare's  not  appearing  and  letting  the  thing 
go  undefended.  If  there's  no  chance  of  their  coming 
together  again,  what  is  the  use  of  prolonging  a  state  of 
stalemate?" 

"That's  what  I  think,  Uncle  Lionel;  but,  of  course,  you 
know  the  charges  aren't  true." 

The  Judge  grimaced. 

"I'm  speaking  as  a  man,  Dinny.  The  publicity  will  be 
lamentable  for  Ckre,  win  or  lose;  whereas,  if  she  and  this 
young  man  didn't  defend,  there'd  be  very  little.  Adrian 


OVER     THE     RIVER  223 

says  she  would  refuse  any  support  from  Corven,  so  that 
element  doesn't  come  in.  What  is  all  the  trouble  about? 
You  know,  of  course." 

"Very  vaguely,  and  in  confidence." 

"Great  pity  I"  said  the  Judge:  "If  they  knew  as  much  as  I 
do,  people  would  never  fight  these  things." 

"There  //  that  claim  for  damages." 

"Yes,  Adrian  was  telling  me — pretty  medieval,  that." 

"Is  revenge  medieval,  Uncle  Lionel?" 

"Not  altogether,"  said  the  Judge,  with  his  wry  smile; 
"but  I  shouldn't  have  thought  a  man  in  Corven's  position 
could  afford  such  luxuries.  To  put  his  wife  into  the  scalesl 
Thoroughly  unpleasant." 

Adrian  put  his  arm  round  Dinny's  shoulders. 

"Nobody  feels  that  more  than  Dinny." 

"I  suppose,"  murmured  the  Judge,  "Corven  will  at  least 
have  them  settled  on  her." 

"Clare  wouldn't  take  them.  But,  why  shouldn't  they  win? 
I  thought  the  law  existed  to  administer  justice,  Uncle  Lionel." 

"I  don't  like  juries,"  said  the  Judge  abruptly. 

Dinny  looked  at  him  with  curiosity — surprisingly 
frank!  He  added: 

"Tell  Clare  to  keep  her  voice  up  and  her  answers  short. 
And  don't  let  her  try  to  be  clever.  Any  laughter  in  court 
should  be  raised  by  the  judge." 

So  saying,  he  again  smiled  wryly,  shook  her  hand,  and 
took  himself  away. 

"Is  Uncle  Lionel  a  good  judge?" 

"Impartial  and  polite,  they  say.  I've  never  seen  him  in 
court,  but  from  what  I  know  of  him  as  a  brother,  he'd  be 
conscientious  and  thorough;  a  bit  sarcastic  at  times.  He's 
quite  right  about  this  case,  Dinny." 

"I've  felt  that  all  along.  It's  Father,  and  that  claim  for 
damages." 

"I  expect  they  regret  that  claim  now.  His  lawyers 
must  be  bunglers.  Angling  for  positionl" 


224  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Isn't  that  what  lawyers  are  for?" 

Adrian  laughed. 

"Here's  tea!  Let's  drown  our  sorrows,  and  go  and 
see  a  film.  There's  a  German  thing  they  say  is  really 
magnanimous.  Rea/  magnanimity  on  the  screen,  Dinny, 
think  of  it!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

OVER  was  the  shuffling  of  seats  and  papers,  which  marks 
the  succession  of  one  human  drama  by  another,  and  'very 
young*  Roger  said: 

"We'll  go  into  the  well  of  the  court." 

There,  with  her  sister  and  her  father,  Dinny  sat  down, 
bastioned  from  Jerry  Corven  by  Very  young*  Roger  and  his 
rival  in  the  law. 

"Is  this,"  she  whispered,  "the  well  at  the  bottom  of 
which  truth  lies,  or  lies?" 

Unable  to  see  the  rising  'body*  of  the  court  behind  her, 
she  knew  by  instinct  and  the  sense  of  hearing  that  it  was 
filling  up.  The  public's  unerring  sense  of  value  had 
scented  out  a  fight,  if  not  a  title.  The  Judge,  too,  seemed  to 
have  smelt  something,  for  he  was  shrouded  in  a  large 
bandana  handkerchief.  Dinny  gazed  upward.  Im- 
pressively high,  and  vaguely  Gothic,  the  court,  seemed. 
Above  where  the  Judge  sat  red  curtains  were  drawn  across, 
surprisingly  beyond  the  reach  of  man.  Her  eyes  fell  to  the 
jury  filing  into  their  two-ranked  'box.'  The  foreman 
fascinated  her  at  once  by  his  egg-shaped  face  and  head, 
little  hair  of  any  sort,  red  cheeks,  light  eyes,  and  an  ex- 
pression so  subtly  blended  between  that  of  a  codfish  and  a 
sheep  that  it  reminded  her  of  neither.  His  face  recalled 
rather  one  of  the  two  gentlemen  of  South  Molton  Street, 
and  she  felt  almost  sure  that  he  was  a  jeweller.  Three 
women  sat  at  the  end  of  the  front  row,  no  one  of  whom, 
surely,  could  ever  have  spent  a  night  in  a  car.  The  first  was 
stout  and  had  the  pleasant  flattish  face  of  a  superior  house- 
keeper. The  second,  thin,  dark,  and  rather  gaunt,  was 
perhaps  a  writer.  The  third's  bird-like  look  was  disguised 
in  an  obvious  cold.  The  other  eight  male  members  of  the 

225 


226  OVER     THE     RIVER 

jury  tired  her  eyes,  so  diverse  and  difficult  to  place.  A 
voice  said: 

"Corven  versus  Corven  and  Groom — husband's  peti- 
tion," and  she  gave  Clare's  arm  a  convulsive  squeeze. 

"If  your  Lordship  pleases " 

Out  of  the  tail  of  her  eye  she  could  see  a  handsome, 
small- whiskered  visage,  winy  under  its  wig. 

The  Judge's  face,  folded  and  far  away,  as  of  a  priest  or  of 
a  tortoise,  was  poked  forward  suddenly.  His  gaze,  know- 
ing and  impersonal,  seemed  taking  her  in,  and  she  felt 
curiously  small.  He  drew  his  head  back,  as  suddenly. 

The  slow  rich  voice  behind  her  began  retailing  the  names 
and  positions  of  the  'parties/  the  places  of  their  marriage 
and  co-habitation;  it  paused  a  moment  and  then  went 
on: 

"In  the  middle  of  September  of  last  year,  while  the 
petitioner  was  up-country  in  discharge  of  official  duty,  the 
respondent,  without  a  word  of  warning,  left  her  home  and 
sailed  for  England.  On  board  the  ship  was  the  co-re- 
spondent. It  is  said  by  the  defence,  I  believe,  that  these  two 
had  not  met  before.  I  shall  suggest  that  they  had  met,  or  at 
all  events  had  had  every  opportunity  of  so  meeting." 

Dinny  saw  her  sister's  little  disdainful  shrug. 

"However  that  may  be,"  proceeded  the  slow  voice, 
"there  is  no  question  that  they  were  always  together  on  the 
ship,  and  I  shall  show  that  towards  the  end  of  the  voyage 
the  co-respondent  was  seen  coming  out  of  the  respondent's 
stateroom."  On  and  on  the  voice  drooled  till  it  reached  the 
words:  "I  will  not  dwell,  members  of  the  jury,  on  the 
details  of  the  watch  kept  on  the  respondent's  and  co- 
respondent's movements;  you  will  have  these  from  the 
mouths  of  expert  and  reputable  witnesses.  Sir  Gerald 
Corven." 

When  Dinny  raised  her  eyes  he  was  already  in  the  box, 
his  face  carved  out  of  an  even  harder  wood  than  she  had 
thought.  She  was  conscious  of  the  resentment  on  her 


OVER     THE     RIVER  227 

father's  face,  of  the  Judge  taking  up  his  pen,  of  Qare 
clenching  her  hands  on  her  lap;  of  Very  young*  Roger's 
narrowed  eyes;  of  the  foreman's  slightly  opening  mouth, 
and  the  third  jurywoman's  smothered  sneeze;  conscious  of 
the  brownness  in  this  place — it  oozed  brownness  as  if 
designed  to  dinge  all  that  was  rose,  blue,  silver,  gold,  or 
even  green  in  human  life. 

The  slow  voice  began  its  questioning,  ceased  its  question- 
ing; the  personable  owner  of  it  closed,  as  it  were,  black 
wings;  and  a  different  voice  behind  her  said: 

"You  thought  it  your  duty,  sir,  to  institute  these 
proceedings?" 

"Yes." 

"No  animus?" 

"None." 

"This  claim  for  damages — not  very  usual,  is  it,  nowa- 
days among  men  of  honour?" 

"They  will  be  settled  on  my  wife." 

"Has  your  wife  indicated  in  any  way  that  she  wishes  you 
to  support  her?" 

"No." 

"Would  it  surprise  you  to  hear  that  she  would  not  take  a 
penny  from  you,  whether  it  came  from  the  co-respondent 
or  not?" 

Dinny  saw  the  cat-like  smile  beneath  the  cut  moustache. 

"Nothing  would  surprise  me." 

"It  did  not  even  surprise  you  that  she  left  you?" 

She  looked  round  at  the  questioner.  So  this  was  Instone, 
who  Dornford  had  said  was  "very  handicapped"!  He 
seemed  to  her  to  have  one  of  those  faces,  with  dominant 
noses,  that  nothing  could  handicap. 

"Yes,  that  did  surprise  me." 

"Now,  why?  .  .  .  Perhaps  you  would  translate  that 
movement  into  words,  sir?" 

"Do  wives  generally  leave  their  husbands  without 
reason  given?" 

p 


228  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Not  unless  the  reason  is  too  obvious  to  require 
statement.  Was  that  the  case?" 

"No." 

"What  should  you  say,  then,  was  the  reason?  You  are 
the  person  best  able  to  form  an  opinion." 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"Who  then?" 

"My  wife  herself." 

"Still  you  must  have  some  suspicion.  Would  you  mind 
saying  what  it  was?" 

"I  should." 

"Now,  sir,  you  are  on  your  oath.  Did  you  or  did  you  not 
ill-treat  your  wife  in  any  way?" 

"I  admit  one  incident  which  I  regret  and  for  which  I  have 
apologised." 

"What  was  that  incident?" 

Dinny,  sitting  taut  between  her  father  and  her  sister, 
feeling  in  her  whole  being  the  vibration  of  their  pride  and 
her  own,  heard  the  slow  rich  voice  strike  in  behind  her. 

"My  Lord,  I  submit  that  my  friend  is  not  entitled  to  ask 
that  question." 

"My  Lord " 

"I  must  stop  you,  Mr.  Instone." 

"I  bow  to  your  Lordship's  ruling.  .  .  .  Are  you  a  hot- 
tempered  man,  sir?" 

"No." 

"There  would  be  a  certain  deliberation  about  your 
actions,  at  all  times?" 

"I  hope  so." 

"Even  when  those  actions  were  not — shall  we  say — 
benevolent?" 

"Yes." 

"I  see;  and  I  am  sure  the  jury  also  does.  Now,  sir,  let  me 
take  you  to  another  point.  You  suggest  that  your  wife  and 
Mr.  Groom  had  met  in  Ceylon?" 

"I  have  no  idea  whether  they  had  or  not." 


OVER     THE     RIVER  229 

"Have  you  any  personal  knowledge  that  they  did?" 

"No." 

"We  have  been  told  by  my  friend  that  he  will  bring 
evidence  to  show  that  they  had  met " 

The  slow  rich  voice  interposed: 

"That  they  had  had  opportunity  of  meeting." 

"We  will  take  it  at  that.  Were  you  aware,  sir,  that  they 
had  enjoyed  such  opportunity?" 

"I  was  not." 

"Had  you  ever  seen  or  heard  of  Mr.  Groom  in  Ceylon?" 

"No." 

"When  did  you  first  know  of  the  existence  of  this 
gentleman?" 

"I  saw  him  in  London  in  November  last,  coming  out  of  a 
house  where  my  wife  was  staying,  and  I  asked  her  his 
name." 

"Did  she  make  any  concealment  of  it?" 

"None." 

"Is  that  the  only  time  you  have  seen  this  gentleman?" 

"Yes." 

"What  made  you  pitch  on  him  as  a  possible  means  of 
securing  a  divorce  from  your  wife?" 

"I  object  to  that  way  of  putting  it." 

"Very  well.  What  drew  your  attention  to  this  gentleman 
as  a  possible  co-respondent?" 

"What  I  heard  on  the  ship  by  which  I  returned  from  Port 
Said  to  Ceylon  in  November.  It  was  the  same  ship  as  that 
in  which  my  wife  and  the  co-respondent  came  to  England." 

"And  what  did  you  hear?" 

"That  they  were  always  together." 

"Not  unusual  on  board  ship,  is  it?" 

"In  reason — no." 

"Even  in  your  own  experience?" 

"Perhaps  not." 

"What  else,  if  anything,  did  you  hear  to  make  you  so 
suspicious?" 


230  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"A  stewardess  told  me  that  she  had  seen  him  coming 
out  of  my  wife's  stateroom." 

"At  what  time  of  day  or  night  was  that?" 

"Shortly  before  dinner." 

"You  have  travelled  by  sea  a  good  deal,  I  suppose,  in  the 
course  of  your  professional  duties?" 

"A  great  deal." 

"And  have  you  noticed  that  people  frequently  go  to  each 
other's  staterooms?" 

"Yes,  quite  a  lot." 

"Does  it  always  arouse  your  suspicions?" 

"No." 

"May  I  go  further  and  suggest  that  it  never  did  before?" 

"You  may  not." 

"Are  you  naturally  a  suspicious  man?" 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"Not  what  would  be  called  jealous?" 

"I  should  say  not." 

"Your  wife  is  a  good  deal  younger  than  yourself?" 

"Seventeen  years." 

"Still,  you  are  not  so  old  as  to  be  unable  to  appreciate  the 
fact  that  young  men  and  women  in  these  days  treat  each 
other  with  very  little  ceremony  and  consciousness  of  sex?" 

"If  you  want  my  age,  I  am  forty-one." 

"Practically  post-war." 

"I  was  through  the  war." 

"Then  you  know  that  much  which  before  the  war  might 
have  been  regarded  as  suspicious  has  long  lost  that 
character?" 

"I  know  that  things  are  all  very  free  and  easy." 

"Thank  you.  Had  you  ever,  before  she  left  you,  had 
occasion  to  be  suspicious  of  your  wife?" 

Dinny  looked  up. 

"Never." 

"But  this  little  incident  of  his  coming  out  of  her  cabin 
was  enough  to  cause  you  to  have  her  watched?" 


OVER     THE     RIVER  23! 

"That,  and  the  fact  that  they  were  always  together 
on  the  ship,  and  my  having  seen  him  coming  out  of  the 
house  in  London." 

"When  you  were  in  London  you  told  her  that  she  must 
come  back  to  you  or  take  the  consequences?" 

"I  don't  think  I  used  those  words." 

"What  words  did  you  use?" 

"I  think  I  said  she  had  the  misfortune  to  be  my  wife,  and 
that  she  couldn't  be  a  perpetual  grass  widow." 

"Not  a  very  elegant  expression,  was  it?" 

"Perhaps  not." 

"You  were,  in  fact,  eager  to  seize  on  anybody  or 
anything  to  free  yourself?" 

"No,  I  was  eager  for  her  to  come  back." 

"In  spite  of  your  suspicions?" 

"I  had  no  suspicions  in  London." 

"I  suggest  that  you  had  ill-treated  her,  and  wished  to  be 
free  of  an  association  that  hurt  your  pride." 

The  slow  rich  voice  said: 

"My  Lord,  I  object." 

"My  Lord,  the  petitioner  having  admitted " 

"Yes,  but  most  husbands,  Mr.  Instone,  have  done 
something  for  which  they  have  been  glad  to  apolo- 
gise." 

"As  your  Lordship  pleases.  ...  In  any  case,  you  gave 
instructions  to  have  your  wife  watched.  When  exactly  did 
you  do  that?" 

"When  I  got  back  to  Ceylon." 

"Immediately?" 

"Almost." 

"That  did  not  show  great  eagerness  to  have  her  back, 
did  it?" 

"My  view  was  entirely  changed  by  what  I  was  told  on  the 
ship." 

"On  the  ship.  Not  very  nice,  was  it,  listening  to  gossip 
about  your  wife?" 


232  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"No,  but  she  had  refused  to  come  back,  and  1  had  to 
make  up  my  mind." 

"Within  two  months  of  her  leaving  your  house?" 

"More  than  two  months." 

"Well,  not  three.  I  suggest,  you  know,  that  you 
practically  forced  her  to  leave  you;  and  then  took  the 
earliest  opportunity  open  to  you  to  ensure  that  she 
shouldn't  come  back?" 

"No." 

"So  you  say.  Very  well!  These  enquiry  agents  you 
employed — had  you  seen  them  before  you  left  England  to 
return  to  Ceylon?" 

"No." 

"Will  you  swear  that?" 

"Yes." 

"How  did  you  come  to  hit  upon  them?" 

"I  left  it  to  my  solicitors." 

"Oh!  then  you  had  seen  your  solicitors  before  you  left?" 

"Yes." 

"In  spite  of  your  having  no  suspicions?" 

"A  man  going  so  far  away  naturally  sees  his  solicitors 
before  he  starts." 

"You  saw  them  in  relation  to  your  wife?" 

"And  other  matters." 

"What  did  you  say  to  them  about  your  wife?" 

Again  Dinny  looked  up.  In  her  was  growing  the  distaste 
of  one  seeing  even  an  opponent  badgered. 

"I  think  I  simply  said  that  she  was  staying  behind  with 
her  people." 

"Only  that?" 

"I  probably  said  that  things  were  difficult." 

"Only  that?" 

"I  remember  saying:  *I  don't  quite  know  what's  going 
to  happen.' ': 

"Will  you  swear  you  did  not  say:  *I  may  be  wanting  you 
to  have  her  watched'?" 


OVER     THE     RIVER  233 

"I  Will." 

"Will  you  swear  that  you  said  nothing  which  conveyed 
to  them  the  idea  that  you  had  a  divorce  in  your  mind?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  what  was  conveyed  to  them  by  what  I 
said." 

"Don't  quibble,  sir.  Was  the  word  divorce  mentioned?" 

"I  don't  remember  it." 

"You  don't  remember  it?  Did  you  or  did  you  not  leave 
them  with  the  impression  that  you  might  be  wanting  to 
take  proceedings?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  told  them  that  things  were  difficult." 

"So  you  have  said  before.  That  is  not  an  answer  to  my 
question." 

Dinny  saw  the  Judge's  head  poked  forward. 

"The  petitioner  has  said,  Mr.  Instone,  that  he  does  not 
know  the  impression  left  on  his  lawyers'  minds.  What  are 
you  driving  at?" 

"My  Lord,  the  essence  of  my  case — and  I  am  glad  to 
have  this  opportunity  of  stating  it  succinctly — is  that  from 
the  moment  the  petitioner  had  acted  in  such  a  way — 
whatever  it  was — as  caused  his  wife  to  leave  him,  he  was 
determined  to  divorce  her,  and  ready  to  snatch  at  any- 
thing that  came  along  to  secure  that  divorce." 

"Well,  you  can  call  his  solicitor." 

"My  Lord!" 

Those  simple  words  were  like  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders 
put  into  sound. 

"Well,  go  on!" 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  Dinny  caught  the  sound  of  finality 
in  the  voice  of  the  'handicapped'  Instone. 

"You  wish  to  suggest  to  the  jury  that  although  you 
instituted  these  proceedings  on  the  first  and  only  gossip 
you  heard,  and  although  you  added  a  claim  for  damages 
against  a  man  you  have  never  spoken  to — that  in  spite  of  all 
this  you  are  a  forbearing  and  judicious  husband,  whose 
only  desire  was  that  his  wife  should  come  back  to  him?" 


234  OVER     THE     RIVER 

Her  eyes  went  for  the  last  time  to  the  face  up  there,  more 
hidden  by  its  mask  than  ever. 

"I  wish  to  suggest  nothing  to  the  jury." 

"Very  well!" 

There  was  a  rustling  of  silk  behind  her. 

"My  Lord,"  the  slow,  rich  voice  intoned,  "since  my 
friend  has  made  so  much  of  the  point,  I  will  call  the 
petitioner's  solicitor." 

'Very  young*  Roger,  leaning  across,  said: 

"Dornford  wants  you  all  to  lunch  with  him  .  .  ." 

Dinny  could  eat  practically  nothing,  afflicted  by  a  sort  ot 
nausea.  Though  more  alarmed  and  distraught  during 
Hubert's  case,  and  at  the  inquest  on  Ferse,  she  had  not  felt 
like  this.  It  was  her  first  experience  of  the  virulence  in- 
herent in  the  conduct  of  actions  between  private  in- 
dividuals. The  continual  suggestion  that  the  opponent  was 
mean,  malicious  and  untruthful,  which  underlay  every 
cross-examining  question,  had  affected  her  nerves. 

On  their  way  back  to  the  court,  Dornford  said: 

"I  know  what  you're  feeling.  But  remember,  it's  a  sort 
of  game;  both  sides  play  according  to  the  same  rules,  and 
the  Judge  is  there  to  discount  exaggeration.  When  I  try  to 
see  how  it  could  be  worked  otherwise,  I  can't." 

"It  makes  one  feel  nothing's  ever  quite  clean." 

"I  wonder  if  anything  ever  is." 

"The  Cheshire  cat's  grin  did  fade  at  last,"  she  murmured. 

"It  never  does  in  the  Law  Courts,  Dinny.  They  should 
have  it  graven  over  the  doors." 

Whether  owing  to  that  short  conversation,  or  because 
she  was  getting  used  to  it,  she  did  not  feel  so  sick  during  the 
afternoon  session,  devoted  to  examination  and  cross- 
examination  of  the  stewardess  and  enquiry  agents.  At  four 
o'clock  the  petitioner's  case  was  closed,  and  'very  young' 
Roger  cocked  his  eye  at  her,  as  who  should  say:  "The 
Court  will  now  rise,  and  I  shall  be  able  to  take  snuff." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

IN  the  taxi,  on  the  way  back  to  South  Square,  Clare  was 
silent,  till,  opposite  Big  Ben,  she  said  suddenly: 

"Imagine  his  peering  in  at  us  in  the  car  when  we  were 
asleep!  Or  did  he  just  invent  that,  Dinny?" 

"If  he'd  invented  it,  he  would  surely  have  made  it  more 
convincing  still." 

"Of  course,  my  head  was  on  Tony's  shoulder.  And  why 
not?  You  try  sleeping  in  a  two-seater." 

"I  wonder  the  man's  torch  didn't  wake  you." 

"I  daresay  it  did;  I  woke  a  lot  of  times  with  cramp.  No; 
the  stupidest  thing  I  did,  Dinny,  was  asking  Tony  in  for  a 
drink  that  night  after  we  went  to  the  film  and  dined.  We 
were  extraordinarily  green  not  to  realise  we  were  being 
shadowed.  Were  there  a  frightful  lot  of  people  in  Court?" 

"Yes,  and  there'll  be  more  to-morrow." 

"Did  you  see  Tony?" 

"Just  a  glimpse." 

"I  wish  I'd  taken  your  advice  and  let  it  go.  If  only  I 
were  really  in  love  with  him!" 

Dinny  did  not  answer. 

Aunt  Em  was  in  Fleur's  'parlour/  She  came  towards 
Clare,  opened  her  mouth,  seemed  to  remember  that  she 
shouldn't,  scrutinised  her  niece,  and  said  suddenly: 

"Not  so  good!  I  do  dislike  that  expression;  who  taught 
it  me?  Tell  me  about  the  Judge,  Dinny;  was  his  nose 
long?" 

^"No;  but  he  sits  very  low  and  shoots  his  neck  out." 

"Why?" 

"I  didn't  ask  him,  dear." 

Lady  Mont  turned  to  Fleur. 


236  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Can  Clare  have  her  dinner  in  bed?  Go  and  have  a  long 
bath,  my  dear,  and  don't  get  up  till  to-morrow.  Then 
you'll  be  fresh  for  that  Judge.  Fleur,  you  go  with  her,  I 
want  to  talk  to  Dinny." 

When  they  had  gone,  she  moved  across  to  where  the 
wood  fire  burned. 

"Dinny,  comfort  me.  Why  do  we  have  these  things  in 
our  family?  So  unlike — except  your  great-grandfather;  and 
he  was  older  than  Queen  Victoria  when  he  was  born." 

"You  mean  he  was  naturally  rakish?" 

"Yes,  gamblin',  and  enjoyin'  himself  and  others.  His 
wife  was  long-sufferin'.  Scottish.  So  odd!" 

"That,  I  suppose,"  murmured  Dinny,  "is  why  we've  all 
been  so  good  ever  since." 

"What  is  why?" 

"The  combination." 

"It's  more  the  money,"  said  Lady  Mont;  "he  spent  it 
all." 

"Was  there  much?" 

"Yes.  The  price  of  corn." 

"Ill-gotten." 

"His  father  couldn't  help  Napoleon.  There  were  six 
thousand  acres  then,  and  your  great-grandfather  only  left 
eleven  hundred." 

"Mostly  woods." 

"That  was  the  woodcock  shootin'.  Will  the  case  be  in 
the  evenin'  papers?" 

"Certain  to  be.   Jerry's  a  public  man." 

"Not  her  dress,  I  hope.   Did  you  like  the  jury?" 

Dinny  shrugged.  "I  can't  ever  tell  what  people  are 
really  thinking." 

"Like  dogs'  noses,  when  they  feel  hot  and  aren't.  What 
about  that  young  man?" 

"He's  the  one  I'm  truly  sorry  for." 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Mont.  "Every  man  commits  adultery 
in  his  heart,  but  not  in  cars." 


OVER     THE     RIVER  237 

"It's  not  truth  but  appearances  that  matter,  Aunt  Em." 

"Circumstantial,  Lawrence  says — provin'  they  did  when 
they  didn't.  More  reliable  that  way,  he  thinks;  otherwise, 
he  says,  when  they  didn't  you  could  prove  they  did.  Is  that 
right,  Dinny?" 

"No,  dear." 

"Well,  I  must  go  home  to  your  mother.  She  doesn't  eat 
a  thing — sits  and  reads  «id  looks  pale.  And  Con  won't  go 
near  his  Club.  Fleur  wants  us  and  them  to  go  to  Monte 
Carlo  in  her  car  when  it's  over.  She  says  we  shall  be  in  our 
element,  and  that  Riggs  can  drive  on  the  right-hand  side  of 
the  road  when  he  remembers." 

Dinny  shook  her  head. 

"Nothing  like  one's  own  hole,  Auntie." 

"I  don't  like  creepin',"  said  Lady  Mont.  "Kiss  me. 
And  get  married  soon." 

When  she  had  swayed  out  of  the  room,  Dinny  stood 
looking  out  into  the  Square. 

How  incorrigible  was  that  prepossession!  Aunt  Em  and 
Uncle  Adrian,  her  father  and  her  mother,  Fleur,  yes  and 
even  Clare  herself — all  anxious  that  she  should  marry 
Dornford  and  be  done  with  itl 

And  what  good  would  it  do  any  of  them?  Whence  came 
this  instinct  for  pressing  people  into  each  other's  arms?  If 
she  had  any  use  in  the  world,  would  that  increase  it?  Tor 
the  procreation  of  children,'  went  the  words  of  the  old 
order.  The  world  had  to  be  carried  onl  Why  had  the  world 
to  be  carried  on?  Everybody  used  the  word  'hell'  in 
connection  with  it  nowadays.  Nothing  to  look  forward  to 
but  brave  new  worldl 

'Or  the  Catholic  church,'  she  thought,  'and  I  don't 
believe  in  either.' 

She  opened  the  window,  and  leaned  against  its  frame. 
A  fly  buzzed  at  her;  she  blew  it  away,  and  it  instantly  came 
back.  Fliesl  They  fulfilled  a  purpose.  What  purpose? 
While  they  were  alive  they  were  alive;  when  they  were 


238  OVER     THE     RIVER 

dead  they  were  dead.  'But  not  half-alive/  she  thought. 
She  blew  again,  and  this  time  the  fly  did  not  come  back. 

Fleur's  voice  behind  her  said: 

"Isn't  it  cold  enough  for  you  in  here,  my  dear?  Did  you 
ever  know  such  a  year?  I  say  that  every  May.  Come  and 
have  tea.  Clare's  in  her  bath,  and  very  nice  she  looks,  with 
a  cup  of  tea  in  one  hand  and  a  cigarette  in  the  other.  I 
suppose  they'll  get  to  the  end  to-morrow?" 

"Your  cousin  says  so." 

"He's  coming  to  dinner.  Luckily  his  wife's  at  Droitwich." 

"Why  'luckily'?" 

"Oh!  well,  she's  a  wife.  If  there's  anything  he  wants  to 
say  to  Clare,  I  shall  send  him  up  to  her;  she'll  be  out  of  her 
bath  by  then.  But  he  can  say  it  to  you  just  as  well.  How 
do  you  think  Clare  will  do  in  the  box?" 

"Can  anyone  do  well  in  the  box?" 

"My  father  said  I  did,  but  he  was  partial;  and  the 
Coroner  complimented  you,  didn't  he,  at  the  Ferse 
inquest?" 

"There  was  no  cross-examination.  Clare's  not  patient, 
Fleur." 

"Tell  her  to  count  five  before  she  answers,  and  lift  her 
eyebrows.  The  thing  is  to  get  Brough  rattled." 

"His  voice  would  madden  me,"  said  Dinny,  "and  he  has 
a  way  of  pausing  as  if  he  had  all  day  before  him." 

"Yes,  quite  a  common  trick.  The  whole  thing's  extra- 
ordinarily like  the  Inquisition.  What  do  you  think  of 
Clare's  counsel?" 

"I  should  hate  him  if  I  were  on  the  other  side." 

"Then  he's  good.  Well,  Dinny,  what's  the  moral  of  all 
this?" 

"Don't  marry." 

"Bit  sweeping,  till  we  can  grow  babies  in  bottles. 
Hasn't  it  ever  struck  you  that  civilisation's  built  on  the 
maternal  instinct?" 

"I  thought  it  was  built  on  agriculture." 


OVER     THE     RIVER  239 

"By  'civilisation'  I  meant  everything  that  isn't  just 
force." 

Dinny  looked  at  her  cynical  and  often  flippant  cousin, 
who  stood  so  poised  and  trim  and  well-manicured  before 
her,  and  she  felt  ashamed.  Fleur  said,  unexpectedly: 

"You're  rather  a  darling." 

Dinner,  Clare  having  it  in  bed  and  the  only  guest  being 
'very  young'  Roger,  was  decidedly  vocal.  Starting  with  an 
account  of  how  his  family  felt  about  taxation,  'very  young' 
Roger  waxed  amusing.  His  Uncle  Thomas  Forsyte,  it 
appeared,  had  gone  to  live  in  Jersey,  and  returned  in- 
dignantly when  Jersey  began  to  talk  about  taxation  of  its 
own.  He  had  then  written  to  The  Times  under  the  nom  de 
guerre  of  'Individualist,'  sold  all  his  investments,  and  re- 
invested them  in  tax-free  securities,  which  brought  him  in 
slightly  less  revenue  than  he  had  been  receiving  nett  from 
his  taxed  securities.  He  had  voted  for  the  Nationalists  at 
the  last  election,  and,  since  this  new  budget,  was  looking 
out  for  a  party  that  he  could  conscientiously  vote  for  at  the 
next  election.  He  was  living  at  Bournemouth. 

"Extremely  well-preserved,"  concluded  'very  young' 
Roger.  "Do  you  know  anything  about  bees,  Fleur?" 

"I  once  sat  on  one." 

"Do  you,  Miss  Cherrell?" 

"We  keep  them." 

"If  you  were  me,  would  you  go  in  for  them?" 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"A  little  beyond  Hatfield.  There  are  some  quite  nice 
clover  crops  round.  Bees  appeal  to  me  in  theory.  They 
feed  on  other  people's  flowers  and  clover;  and  if  you  find  a 
swarm  you  can  stick  to  it.  What  are  the  drawbacks?" 

"Well,  if  they  swarm  on  other  people's  ground,  ten  to 
one  you  lose  them;  and  you  have  to  feed  them  all  the 
winter.  Otherwise  it's  only  a  question  of  the  time,  trouble, 
and  stings." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  should  mind  that,"  murmured  'very 


240  OVER     THE     RIVER 

young'  Roger;  "my  wife  would  take  them  on."  He  cocked 
his  eye  slightly:  "She  has  rheumatism.  Apic  acid,  they 
say,  is  the  best  cure." 

"Better  make  sure  first,"  murmured  Dinny,  "that  they'll 
sting  her.  You  can't  get  bees  to  sting  people  they  like." 

"You  can  always  sit  on  them,"  murmured  Fleur. 

"Seriously,"  said  'very  young'  Roger,  "half-a-dozen 
stings  would  be  well  worth  it,  poor  thing." 

"What  made  you  take  up  law,  Forsyte?"  struck  in 
Michael. 

"Well,  I  got  a  'blighty'  one  in  the  war,  and  had  to  get 
something  sedentary.  I  rather  like  it,  you  know,  in  a  way, 
and  in  a  way  I  think  it's " 

"Quite!"  said  Michael:  "Hadn't  you  an  Uncle  George?" 

"Old  Georgel  Rather!  Always  gave  me  ten  bob  at 
school,  and  tipped  me  the  name  of  a  horse  to  put  it  on." 

"Did  it  ever  win?" 

"No." 

"Well,  tell  us,  frankly:  What's  going  to  win  to-morrow?" 

"Frankly,"  said  the  solicitor,  looking  at  Dinny,  "it 
depends  on  your  sister,  Miss  Cherrell.  Corven's  witnesses 
have  done  well.  They  didn't  claim  too  much,  and  they 
weren't  shaken;  but  if  Lady  Corven  keeps  her  head  and  her 
temper,  we  may  pull  through.  If  her  veracity  is  whittled 

away  at  any  point,  then !"  he  shrugged,  and  looked — 

Dinny  thought — older.  "There  are  one  or  two  birds  on 
the  jury  I  don't  like  the  look  of.  The  foreman's  one.  The 
average  man,  you  know,  is  dead  against  wives  leaving 
without  notice.  I'd  feel  much  happier  if  your  sister  would 
open  up  on  her  married  life.  It's  not  too  late." 

Dinny  shook  her  head. 

"Well,  then,  it's  very  much  a  case  of  the  personal  appeal. 
But  there's  a  prejudice  against  mice  playing  when  the  cat's 
away." 

Dinny  went  to  bed  with  the  sick  feeling  of  one  who 
knows  she  has  again  to  watch  some  form  of  torture. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

DAY  by  day  the  Courts  of  Law  are  stony  and  unchanged. 
The  same  gestures  are  made,  the  same  seats  taken;  the  same 
effluvium  prevails,  not  too  strong,  but  just  strong  enough. 

Clare  was  in  black  on  this  second  day,  with  a  slim  green 
feather  in  a  close-fitting  black  hat.  Pale,  her  lips  barely 
touched  with  salve,  she  sat  so  still  that  one  could  not  speak 
to  her.  The  words  "Society  Divorce  Suit,"  and  the  'per- 
fect' headline,  "Night  in  a  Car,"  had  produced  their  effect; 
there  was  hardly  standing  room.  Dinny  noticed  young 
Croom  seated  just  behind  his  counsel.  She  noticed,  too, 
that  the  birdlike  jury  wo  man's  cold  was  better,  and  the 
foreman's  parroty  eyes  fixed  on  Clare.  The  Judge  seemed 
to  be  sitting  lower  than  ever.  He  raised  himself  slightly  at 
the  sound  of  Instone's  voice. 

"If  it  please  your  Lordship,  and  members  of  the  jury — 
the  answer  to  the  allegation  of  misconduct  between  the 
respondent  and  co-respondent  will  be  a  simple  and 
complete  denial.  I  call  the  respondent." 

With  a  sensation  of  seeing  her  sister  for  the  first  time, 
Dinny  looked  up.  Clare,  as  Dornford  had  recommended, 
stood  rather  far  back  in  the  box,  and  the  shade  from  the 
canopy  gave  her  a  withdrawn  and  mysterious  air.  Her 
voice,  however,  was  clear,  and  perhaps  only  Dinny  could 
have  told  that  it  was  more  clipped  than  usual. 

"Is  it  true,  Lady  Corven,  that  you  have  been  unfaithful 
to  your  husband?" 

"It  is  not." 

"You  swear  that?' 

"I  do." 

"There  have  been  no  love  passages  between  you  and  Mr. 
Croom?" 

241 


2-42.  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"None." 

"You  swear  that?" 

"I  do." 

"Now  it  is  said " 

To  question  on  question  on  question  Dinny  sat  listening, 
her  eyes  not  moving  from  her  sister,  marvelling  at  the  even 
distinctness  of  her  speech  and  the  motionless  calm  of  her 
face  and  figure.  Instone's  voice  to-day  was  so  different 
that  she  hardly  recognised  it. 

"Now,  Lady  Corven,  I  have  one  more  question  to  ask, 
and,  before  you  answer  it,  I  beg  you  to  consider  that  very 
much  depends  on  that  answer.  Why  did  you  leave  your 
husband?" 

Dinny  saw  her  sister's  head  tilt  slightly  backwards. 

"I  left  because  I  did  not  feel  I  could  remain  and  keep 
my  self-respect." 

"Quitel  But  can  you  not  tell  us  why  that  was?  You  had 
done  nothing  that  you  were  ashamed  of?" 

"No." 

"Your  husband  has  admitted  that  he  had,  and  that  he 
had  apologised?" 

"Yes." 

"What  had  he  done?" 

"Forgive  me.  It's  instinct  with  me  not  to  talk  about  my 
married  life." 

Dinny  caught  her  father's  whisper:  "By  Gadl  she's 
rightl"  She  saw  the  Judge's  neck  poked  forward,  his  face 
turned  towards  the  box,  his  lips  open. 

"I  understood  you  to  say  you  felt  you  could  not  remain 
with  your  husband  and  keep  your  self-respect?" 

"Yes,  my  Lord." 

"Did  you  feel  you  could  leave  him  like  that  and  keep 
your  self-respect?" 

"Yes,  my  Lord." 

Dinny  saw  the  Judge's  body  raise  itself  slightly,  and 
his  face  moving  from  side  to  side,  as  if  carefully  avoiding 


OVER     THE     RIVER  243 

any  recipient  of  his  words:  "Well,  there  it  is,  Mr.  Instone. 
I  don't  think  you  can  usefully  pursue  the  point.  The 
respondent  has  evidently  made  up  her  mind  on  it."  His 
eyes  under  drooped  lids  continued  to  survey  what  was 
unseen. 

"If  your  Lordship  pleases.  Once  more,  Lady  Corven, 
there  is  no  truth  in  these  allegations  of  misconduct  with 
Mr.  Groom?" 

"No  truth  whatever." 

"Thank  you." 

Dinny  drew  a  long  breath  and  braced  herself  against  the 
pause  and  the  slow  rich  voice  to  the  right  behind  her. 

"You,  a  married  woman,  would  not  call  inviting  a  young 
man  to  your  cabin,  entertaining  him  alone  in  your  room 
at  half-past  eleven  at  night,  spending  a  night  with  him  in 
a  car,  and  going  about  with  him  continually  in  the  absence 
of  your  husband,  misconduct?" 

"Not  in  itself." 

"Very  well.  You  have  said  that  until  you  saw  him  on 
the  ship  you  had  never  seen  the  co-respondent.  Could  you 
explain  how  it  was  that  from,  I  think,  the  second  day  at 
sea  you  were  so  thick  with  him?" 

"I  was  not  thick  with  him  at  first." 

"Oh,  cornel    Always  together,  weren't  you?" 

"Often,  not  always." 

"Often,  not  always — from  the  second  day?" 

"Yes,  a  ship  is  a  ship." 

"Quite  true,  Lady  Corven.  And  you  had  never  seen 
him  before?" 

"Not  to  my  knowledge." 

"Ceylon  is  not  a  large  place,  is  it,  from  a  society  point 
of  view?" 

"It  is  not." 

"Lots  of  polo  matches,  cricket  matches,  other  functions 
where  you  are  constantly  meeting  the  same  people." 

"Yes." 


244  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"And  yet  you  never  met  Mr.  Groom?  Odd,  wasn't  it?" 

"Not  at  all.  Mr.  Groom  was  on  a  plantation." 

"But  he  played  polo,  I  think?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  are  a  horsewoman,  very  interested  in  all  that 
sort  of  thing?" 

"Yes." 

"And  yet  you  never  met  Mr.  Groom?" 

"I  have  said  I  never  did.  If  you  ask  me  till  to-morrow 
I  shall  say  the  same." 

Dinny  drew  in  her  breath.  Before  her  sprang  up  a 
mental  snapshot  of  Clare  as  a  little  girl  being  questioned 
about  Oliver  Cromwell. 

The  slow  rich  voice  went  on: 

"You  never  missed  a  polo  match  at  Kandy,  did  you?" 

"Never,  if  I  could  help  it." 

"And  on  one  occasion  you  entertained  the  players?" 

Dinny  could  see  a  frown  on  her  sister's  brow. 

"Yes." 

"When  was  that?" 

"I  believe  it  was  last  June." 

"Mr.  Groom  was  one  of  the  players,  wasn't  he?" 

"If  he  was,  I  didn't  see  him." 

"You  entertained  him  but  you  did  not  see  him?" 

"I  did  not." 

"Is  that  usual  with  hostesses  in  Kandy?" 

"There  were  quite  a  lot  of  people,  if  I  remember." 

"Come  now,  Lady  Corven,  here  is  the  programme 
of  the  match — just  take  a  look  at  it  to  refresh  your 
memory." 

"I  remember  the  match  perfectly." 

"But  you  don't  remember  Mr.  Groom,  either  on  the 
ground,  or  afterwards  at  your  house?" 

"I  don't.  I  was  interested  in  the  play  of  the  Kandy 
team,  and  afterwards  there  were  too  many  people.  If  I 
remembered  him  I  should  say  so  at  once." 


OVERTHERIVER  245 

It  seemed  to  Dinny  an  immense  time  before  the  next 
question  came. 

"I  am  suggesting,  you  know,  that  you  did  not  meet  as 
strangers  on  the  boat?" 

"You  may  suggest  what  you  like,  but  we  did." 

"So  you  say." 

Catching  her  father's  muttered:  "Damn  the  fellow!" 
Dinny  touched  his  arm  with  her  own. 

"You  heard  the  stewardess  give  her  evidence?  Was  that 
the  only  time  the  co-respondent  came  to  your  state-room?" 

"The  only  time  he  came  for  more  than  a  minute." 

"OhI   He  did  come  at  other  times?" 

"Once  or  twice  to  borrow  or  return  a  book." 

"On  the  occasion  when  he  came  and  spent — what  was 
it? — half  an  hour  there " 

"Twenty  minutes,  I  should  say." 

"Twenty  minutes — what  were  you  doing?" 

"Showing  him  photographs." 

"OhI   Why  not  on  deck?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Didn't  it  occur  to  you  that  it  was  indiscreet?" 

"I  didn't  think  about  it.  There  were  a  lot  of  photos — 
snapshots  and  photos  of  my  family." 

"But  nothing  that  you  couldn't  have  shown  him 
perfectly  in  the  saloon  or  on  deck?" 

"I  suppose  not." 

"I  take  it  you  imagined  he  wouldn't  be  seen?" 

"I  tell  you  I  didn't  think  about  it." 

"Who  proposed  that  he  should  come?" 

"7  did." 

"You  knew  you  were  in  a  very  dubious  position?" 

"Yes,  but  other  people  didn't." 

"You  could  have  shown  him  those  photographs 
anywhere?  Looking  back  on  it,  don't  you  think  it  was 
singular  of  you  to  do  such  a  compromising  thing  for  no 
reason  at  all?" 


246  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"It  was  less  trouble  to  show  them  to  him  in  the  cabin; 
besides,  they  were  private  photos." 

"Now,  Lady  Corven,  do  you  mean  to  say  that  nothing 
whatever  took  place  between  you  during  those  twenty 
minutes?" 

"He  kissed  my  hand  before  he  went  out." 

"That  is  something,  but  not  quite  an  answer  to  my 
question." 

"Nothing  else  that  could  give  you  satisfaction." 

"How  were  you  dressed?" 

"I  regret  to  have  to  inform  you  that  I  was  fully  dressed." 

"My  Lord,  may  I  ask  to  be  protected  from  these 
sarcasms?" 

Dinny  admired  the  stilly  way  in  which  the  Judge  said: 

"Answer  the  questions  simply,  please." 

"Yes,  my  Lord." 

Clare  had  moved  out  from  under  the  shadow  of  the 
canopy  and  was  standing  with  her  hands  on  the  rail  of  the 
box;  spots  of  red  had  come  into  her  cheeks. 

"I  suggest  that  you  were  lovers  before  you  left  the 
ship?" 

"We  were  not,  and  we  never  have  been." 

"When  did  you  first  see  the  co-respondent  again  after 
you  left  him  on  the  dock?" 

"I  think  about  a  week  later." 

"Where?" 

"Down  near  my  people's  at  Condaford." 

"What  were  you  doing?" 

"I  was  in  a  car." 

"Alone?" 

"Yes,  I  had  been  canvassing  and  was  going  home  to 
tea." 

"And  the  co-respondent?" 

"He  was  in  a  car  too." 

"Sprang  up  in  it,  I  suppose,  quite  naturally?" 

"My  Lord,  I  ask  to  be  protected  from  these  sarcasms. 


OVER     THE     RIVER  247 

Dinny  heard  a  tittering,  and  heard  the  Judge's  voice 
addressing  nobody: 

"What  is  sauce  for  the  goose  is  sauce  for  the  gander, 
Mr.  Brough." 

The  tittering  deepened.  Dinny  could  not  resist  stealing 
a  giance.  The  handsome  face  was  inimitably  wine-coloured. 
Beside  her,  Very  young*  Roger  wore  an  expression  of 
enjoyment  tinctured  by  anxiety. 

"How  came  the  co-respondent  to  be  on  this  country 
road  fifty  miles  from  London?" 

"He  had  come  to  see  me." 

"You  admit  that?" 

"He  said  so." 

"Perhaps  you  could  tell  us  the  exact  words  he  used." 

"I  could  not,  but  I  remember  that  he  asked  if  he  might 
kiss  me." 

"And  you  let  him?" 

"Yes.  I  put  my  cheek  out  of  the  car,  and  he  kissed  it, 
and  went  back  to  his  car  and  drove  away." 

"And  yet  you  say  you  were  not  lovers  before  you  left 
the  ship?" 

"Not  in  your  sense.  I  did  not  say  that  he  was  not  in 
love  with  me.  He  was;  at  least  he  told  me  so." 

"Do  you  suggest  that  you  were  not  in  love  with  him?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  do." 

"But  you  let  him  kiss  you?" 

"I  was  sorry  for  him." 

"You  think  that  is  proper  conduct  for  a  married 
woman?" 

"Perhaps  not.  But  after  I  left  my  husband  I  did  not 
regard  myself  as  a  married  woman." 

"Ohl" 

Dinny  had  a  feeling  as  if  the  whole  Court  had  said 
that  word.  'Very  young*  Roger's  hand  emerged  from 
his  side  pocket;  he  looked  at  what  it  contained  intently, 
and  put  it  back.  A  rueful  frown  had  come  on  the  pleasant 


248  OVER     THE     RIVER 

broad  face  of  the  jurywoman  who  resembled  a  house- 
keeper. 

"And  what  did  you  do  after  you  had  been  kissed?" 

"Went  home  to  tea." 

"Feeling  none  the  worse?" 

"No;  better  if  anything." 

Again  the  titter  rose.  The  Judge's  face  went  round 
towards  the  box. 

"Are  you  speaking  seriously?" 

"Yes,  my  Lord.  I  wish  to  be  absolutely  truthful.  Even 
when  they  are  not  in  love,  women  are  grateful  for  being 
loved." 

The  Judge's  face  came  round  again  to  gaze  at  the  unseen 
above  Dinny's  head. 

"Go  on,  Mr.  Brough." 

"When  was  the  next  occasion  on  which  you  saw  the 
co-respondent?" 

"At  my  aunt's  house  in  London  where  I  was  staying." 

"Did  he  come  to  see  your  aunt?" 

"No,  to  see  my  uncle." 

"Did  he  kiss  you  on  that  occasion?" 

"No.  I  told  him  that  if  we  were  to  meet,  it  must  be 
platonically." 

"A  very  convenient  word." 

"What  other  should  I  have  used?" 

"You  are  not  standing  there  to  ask  me  questions, 
madam.  W7hat  did  he  say  to  that?" 

"That  he  would  do  anything  I  wished." 

"Did  he  see  your  uncle?" 

"No." 

"Was  that  the  occasion  on  which  your  husband  said  he 
saw  him  leaving  the  house?" 

"I  imagine  so." 

"Your  husband  came  directly  he  had  gone?" 

"Yes." 

"He  saw  you,  and  asked  who  that  young  man  was?" 


OVER     THE     RIVER  249 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  tell  him?" 

"Yes." 

"I  think  you  called  the  co-respondent  Tony?" 

"Yes." 

"Was  that  his  name?" 

"No." 

"It  was  your  pet  name  for  him?" 

"Not  at  all.   Everybody  calls  him  that." 

"And  he  called  you  Clare,  or  darling,  I  suppose?" 

"One  or  the  other." 

Dinny  saw  the  Judge's  eyes  lifted  to  the  unseen. 

"Young  people  nowadays  call  each  other  darling  on 
very  little  provocation,  Mr.  Brough." 

"I  am  aware  of  that,  my  Lord.  .  .  .  Did  you  call  him 
darling?" 

"I  may  have,  but  I  don't  think  so." 

"You  saw  your  husband  alone  on  that  occasion?" 

"Yes." 

"How  did  you  receive  him?" 

"Coldly." 

"Having  just  parted  from  the  co-respondent?" 

"That  had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"Did  your  husband  ask  you  to  go  back  to  him?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  refused?" 

"Yes." 

"And  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  co-respondent?" 

"No." 

"Do  you  seriously  tell  the  jury,  Lady  Corven,  that  your 
relations  with  the  co-respondent,  or  if  you  like  it  better, 
your  feelings  for  the  co-respondent,  played  no  part  in  your 
refusal  to  go  back  to  your  husband?" 

"None." 

"I'll  put  it  at  your  own  valuation:  You  had  spent  three 
weeks  in  the  close  company  of  this  young  man.  You  had 


2JO  OVER     THE     RIVER 

allowed  him  to  kiss  you,  and  felt  better  for  it.  You  had 
just  parted  from  him.  You  knew  of  his  feelings  for  you. 
And  you  tell  the  jury  that  he  counted  for  nothing  in  the 
equation?" 

Clare  bowed  her  head. 

"Answer,  please." 

"I  don't  think  he  did." 

"Not  very  human,  was  it?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that." 

"I  mean,  Lady  Corven,  that  it's  going  to  be  a  little 
difficult  for  the  jury  to  believe  you." 

"I  can't  help  what  they  believe,  I  can  only  speak  the 
truth." 

"Very  well!  When  did  you  next  see  the  co-respondent?" 

"On  the  following  evening,  and  the  evening  after  that 
he  came  to  the  unfurnished  rooms  I  was  going  into  and 
helped  me  to  distemper  the  walls." 

"Oh!   A  little  unusual,  wasn't  it?" 

"Perhaps.  I  had  no  money  to  spare,  and  he  had  done 
his  own  bungalow  in  Ceylon." 

"I  see.  Just  a  friendly  office  on  his  part.  And  during 
the  hours  he  spent  with  you  there  no  passages  took  place 
between  you?" 

"No  passages  have  ever  taken  place  between  us." 

"At  what  time  did  he  leave?" 

"We  left  together  both  evenings  about  nine  o'clock, 
and  went  and  had  some  food." 

"And  after  that?" 

"I  went  back  to  my  aunt's  house." 

"Nowhere  in  between?" 

"Nowhere." 

"Very  well!  You  saw  your  husband  again  before  he  was 
compelled  to  go  back  to  Ceylon?" 

"Yes,  twice." 

"Where  was  the  first  time?" 

"At  my  rooms.   I  had  got  into  them  by  then." 


OVER     THE     RIVER  251 

"Did  you  tell  him  that  the  co-respondent  had  helped 
you  distemper  the  walls?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"Why  should  I?  I  told  my  husband  nothing,  except 
that  I  wasn't  going  back  to  him.  I  regarded  my  life  with 
him  as  finished." 

"Did  he  on  that  occasion  again  ask  you  to  go  back  to 
him?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  refused?" 

"Yes." 

"With  contumely?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Insultingly?" 

"No.  Simply." 

"Had  your  husband  given  you  any  reason  to  suppose 
that  he  vished  to  divorce  you?" 

"No.  But  I  don't  know  what  was  in  his  mind." 

"And,  apparently,  you  gave  him  no  chance  to  know 
what  was  in  yours?" 

"As  little  as  possible." 

"A  stormy  meeting?" 

Dinny  held  her  breath.  The  flush  had  died  out  of  Clare's 
cheeks;  her  face  looked  pale  and  peaked. 

"No;  disturbed  and  unhappy.  I  did  not  want  to  see  him." 

"You  heard  your  counsel  say  that  from  the  time  of  your 
leaving  him  in  Ceylon,  your  husband  in  his  wounded  pride 
had  conceived  the  idea  of  divorcing  you  the  moment  he 
got  the  chance?  Was  that  your  impression?" 

"I  had  and  have  no  impression.  It  is  possible.  I  don't 
pretend  to  know  the  workings  of  his  mind." 

"Though  you  lived  with  him  for  nearly  eighteen  months?" 

"Yes." 

"But,  anyway,  you  again  refused  definitely  to  go  back 
to  him?" 


252  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"I  have  said  so." 

"Did  you  believe  he  meant  it  when  he  asked  you  to  go 
back?" 

"At  the  moment,  yes." 

"Did  you  see  him  again  before  he  went?" 

"Yes,  for  a  minute  or  two,  but  not  alone." 

"Who  was  present?" 

"My  father." 

"Did  he  ask  you  again  to  go  back  to  him  on  that 
occasion?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  refused?" 

"Yes." 

"And  after  that  you  had  a  message  from  your  husband 
before  he  left  London,  asking  you  once  more  to  change 
your  mind  and  accompany  him?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  did  not?" 

"No." 

"Now  let  me  take  you  to  the  date  of  January  the — er — 
third" — Dinny  breathed  again — "that  is  the  day  which 
you  spent,  from  five  in  the  afternoon  till  nearly  midnight, 
with  the  co-respondent.  You  admit  doing  that?" 

"Yes." 

"No  passages  between  you?" 

"Only  one.  He  hadn't  seen  me  for  nearly  three  weeks, 
and  he  kissed  my  cheek  when  he  first  came  in  to  have  tea." 

"Oh!    the  cheek  again?    Only  the  cheek?" 

"Yes.   I  am  sorry." 

"So  I  am  sure  was  he." 

"Possibly." 

"  You  first  spent  half  an  hour  alone,  after  this  separation, 
having — tea?" 

"Yes." 

"Your  rooms,  I  think,  are  in  an  old  mews — a  room 
below,  a  staircase,  a  room  above — where  you  sleep?" 


OVER     THE     RIVER  2J3 

"Yes." 

"And  a  bathroom?  Besides  the  tea  I  suppose  you  had  a 
chat?" 

"Yes." 

"Where?" 

"In  the  ground-floor  room." 

"And  then  did  you  walk  together,  chatting,  to  the 
Temple,  and  afterwards  to  a  film  and  to  dinner  at  a 
restaurant,  during  which  you  chatted,  I  suppose,  and  then 
took  a  cab  back  to  you  rooms,  chatting?" 

"Quite  correct." 

"And  then  you  thought  that  having  been  with  him 
nearly  six  hours,  you  had  still  a  good  deal  to  say  and  it  was 
necessary  that  he  should  come  in,  and  he  came?" 

"Yes." 

"That  would  be  past  eleven,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Just  past,  I  think." 

"How  long  did  he  stay  on  that  occasion?" 

"About  half  an  hour." 

"No  passages?" 

"None." 

"Just  a  drink  and  a  cigarette  or  two,  and  a  little  more 
chat?" 

"Precisely." 

"What  had  you  to  talk  about  for  so  many  hours  with 
this  young  man  who  was  privileged  to  kiss  your  cheek?" 

"What  has  anyone  to  talk  about  at  any  time?" 

"I  am  asking  you  that  question." 

"We  talked  about  everything  and  nothing." 

"A  little  more  explicit,  please." 

"Horses,  films,  my  people,  his  people,  theatres — I  really 
don't  remember." 

"Carefully  barring  the  subject  of  love?" 

"Yes." 

"Strictly  platonic  from  beginning  to  end?" 

"I  should  say  so-" 


254  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Come,  Lady  Corven,  do  you  mean  to  tell  us  that  this 
young  man,  who  on  your  own  admission  was  in  love  with 
you,  and  who  hadn't  seen  you  for  nearly  three  weeks  never 
once  during  all  those  hours  yielded  to  his  feelings?" 

"I  think  he  told  me  he  loved  me  once  or  twice;  but  he 
always  stuck  splendidly  to  his  promise." 

"What  promise?" 

"Not  to  make  love  to  me.  To  love  a  person  is  not  a 
crime,  it  is  only  a  misfortune." 

"You  speak  feelingly — from  your  own  experience?" 

Clare  did  not  answer. 

"Do  you  seriously  tell  us  that  you  have  not  been  and 
are  not  in  love  with  this  young  man?" 

"I  am  very  fond  of  him,  but  not  in  your  sense." 

In  Dinny  flamed  up  compassion  for  young  Croom 
listening  to  all  this.  Her  cheeks  went  hot,  and  she  fixed 
her  blue  eyes  on  the  Judge.  He  had  just  finished  taking 
down  Clare's  answer;  and  suddenly  she  saw  him  yawn. 
It  was  an  old  man's  yawn,  and  lasted  so  long  that  it  seemed 
never  going  to  end.  It  changed  her  mood,  and  filled  her 
with  a  sort  of  pity.  He,  too,  had  to  listen  day  after  day 
to  long-drawn-out  attempts  to  hurt  people,  and  make  them 
stultify  themselves. 

"You  have  heard  the  enquiry  agent's  evidence  that 
there  was  a  light  in  the  upstairs  room  after  you  returned 
with  the  co-respondent  from  the  restaurant.  What  do  you 
say  to  that?" 

"There  would  be.    We  sat  there." 

"Why  there,  and  not  downstairs?" 

"Because  it's  much  warmer  and  more  comfortable." 

"That  is  your  bedroom?" 

"No,  it's  a  sitting-room.  I  have  no  bedroom.  I  just 
sleep  on  the  sofa." 

"I  see.  And  there  you  spent  the  time  from  soon  after 
eleven  to  nearly  midnight  with  the  co-respondent?" 

"Yes." 


OVER     THE     RIVER  255 

"And  you  think  there  was  no  harm  in  that?" 

"No  harm,  but  I  think  it  was  extremely  foolish." 

"You  mean  that  you  would  not  have  done  so  if  you  had 
known  you  were  being  watched?" 

"We  certainly  shouldn't." 

"What  made  you  take  these  particular  rooms?" 

"Their  cheapness." 

"Very  inconvenient,  wasn't  it,  having  no  bedroom,  and 
nowhere  for  a  servant,  and  no  porter?" 

"Those  are  luxuries  for  which  one  has  to  pay." 

"Do  you  say  that  you  did  not  take  these  particular  rooms 
because  there  was  no  one  of  any  kind  on  the  premises?" 

"I  do.   I  have  only  just  enough  money  to  live  on." 

"No  thought  of  the  co-respondent,  when  you  took 
them?" 

"None." 

"Not  even  just  a  sidelong  thought  of  him?" 

"My  Lord,  I  have  answered." 

"I  think  she  has,  Mr.  Brough." 

"After  this  you  saw  the  co-respondent  constantly?" 

"No.   Occasionally.   He  was  living  in  the  country." 

"I  see,  and  came  up  to  see  you?" 

"He  always  saw  me  when  he  did  come  up,  perhaps  twice 
a  week." 

"And  when  you  saw  him  what  did  you  do?" 

"Went  to  a  picture  gallery  or  a  film;  once  to  a  theatre, 
I  think.  We  used  to  dine  together." 

"Did  you  know  you  were  being  watched?" 

"No." 

"Did  he  come  to  your  rooms?" 

"Not  again  till  February  the  third." 

"Yes,  that  is  the  day  I  am  coming  to." 

"I  thought  so." 

"You  thought  so.  It  is  a  day  and  night  indelibly  fixed 
in  your  mind?" 

"I  remember  it  very  well." 


256  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"My  friend  has  taken  you  at  length  through  the  events 
of  that  day,  and  except  for  the  hours  at  Oxford,  it  seems 
to  have  been  spent  almost  entirely  in  the  car.  Is  that  so?" 

"Yes." 

"And  this  car  was  a  two-seater,  with  what,  my  Lord,  is 
called  a  Micky.'  " 

The  Judge  stirred. 

"I  have  never  been  in  a  'dicky/  Mr.  Brough,  but  I  know 
what  they  are." 

"Was  it  a  roomy,  comfortable  little  car?" 

"Quite." 

"Closed,  I  think?" 

"Yes.   It  didn't  open." 

"Mr.  Groom  drove  and  you  were  seated  beside  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Now  when  you  were  driving  back  from  Oxford  you 
have  said  that  this  car's  lights  went  out  about  half-past 
ten,  four  miles  or  so  short  of  Henley,  in  a  wood?" 

"Yes." 

"Was  that  an  accident?" 

"Of  course." 

"Did  you  examine  the  battery?" 

"No." 

"Did  you  know  when  or  how  it  was  last  charged?" 

"No." 

"Did  you  see  it  when  it  was  recharged?" 

"No." 

"Then  why— of  course?" 

"If  you  are  suggesting  that  Mr.  Groom  tampered  with 
the  battery " 

"Just  answer  my  question,  please." 

"I  am  answering.  Mr.  Groom  is  incapable  of  any  such 
dirty  trick." 

"It  was  a  dark  night?" 

"Very." 

"And  a  large  wood?" 


OVER     THE     RIVER  257 

"Yes." 

"Just  the  spot  one  would  choose  on  the  whole  of  that 
journey  from  Oxford  to  London?" 

"Choose?" 

"If  one  had  designed  to  spend  the  night  in  the  car." 

"Yes,  but  the  suggestion  is  monstrous." 

"Never  mind  that,  Lady  Corven.  You  regarded  it  as 
a  pure  coincidence?" 

"Of  course." 

"Just  tell  us  what  Mr.  Groom  said  when  the  lights  went 
out." 

"I  think  he  said:  'Hallol  My  lights  are  goneP  And  he 
got  out  and  examined  the  battery." 

"Had  he  a  torch?" 

"No." 

"And  it  was  pitch  dark.  I  wonder  how  he  did  it.  Didn't 
you  wonder  too?" 

"No.   He  used  a  match." 

"And  what  was  wrong?" 

"I  think  he  said  a  wire  must  have  gone." 

"Then — you  have  told  us  that  he  tried  to  drive  on,  and 
twice  got  off  the  road.  It  must  have  been  very  dark?" 

"It  was,  fearfully." 

"I  think  you  said  it  was  your  suggestion  that  you  should 
spend  the  night  in  the  car?" 

"I  did." 

"After  Mr.  Groom  had  proposed  one  or  two  alter- 
natives?" 

"Yes;  he  proposed  that  we  should  walk  into  Henley,  and 
that  he  should  come  back  to  the  car  with  a  torch." 

"Did  he  seem  keen  on  that?" 

"Keen?   Not  particularly." 

"Didn't  press  it?" 

"N— no." 

"Do  you  think  he  ever  meant  it?" 

"Of  course  I  do." 


258  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"In  fact,  you  have  the  utmost  confidence  in  Mr.  Groom?" 

"The  utmost." 

"Quitel  You  have  heard  of  the  expression  'palming  the 
cards'?" 

"Yes." 

"You  know  what  it  means?" 

"It  means  forcing  a  person  to  take  a  card  that  you  wish 
him  to  take." 

"Precisely." 

"If  you  are  suggesting  that  Mr.  Groom  was  trying  to 
force  me  to  propose  that  we  should  spend  the  night  in  the 
car,  you  are  wholly  wrong;  and  it's  a  base  suggestion." 

"What  made  you  think  I  was  going  to  make  that  sug- 
gestion, Lady  Corven?  Had  the  idea  been  present  to  your 
mind?" 

"No.  When  I  suggested  that  we  should  spend  the  night 
in  the  car,  Mr.  Groom  was  taken  aback." 

"Oh!   How  did  he  show  that?" 

"He  asked  me  if  I  could  trust  him.  I  had  to  tell  him 
not  to  be  old-fashioned.  Of  course,  I  could  trust  him." 

"Trust  him  to  act  exactly  as  you  wished?" 

"Trust  him  not  to  make  love  to  me.  I  was  trusting  him 
every  time  I  saw  him." 

"You  had  not  spent  a  night  with  him  before?" 

"Of  course  I  had  not." 

"You  use  the  expression  'of  course*  rather  freely,  and 
it  seems  to  me  with  very  little  reason.  You  had  plenty 
of  opportunities  of  passing  a  night  with  him,  hadn't  you — 
on  the  ship,  and  in  your  rooms  where  there  was  nobody 
but  yourself?" 

"Plenty,  and  I  did  not  avail  myself  of  them." 

"So  you  say;  and  if  you  did  not,  doesn't  it  seem  to  you 
rather  singular  that  you  suggested  it  on  this  occasion?" 

"No.   I  thought  it  would  be  rather  fun." 

"Rather  fun?  Yet  you  knew  this  young  man  was 
passionately  in  love  with  you?" 


OVER     THE     RIVER  259 

"I  regretted  it  afterwards.   It  wasn't  fair  to  him." 

"Really,  Lady  Corven,  do  you  ask  us  to  believe  that 
you,  a  married  woman  of  experience,  didn't  realise  the 
ordeal  by  fire  through  which  you  were  putting  him?" 

"I  did  afterwards,  and  I  was  extremely  sorry." 

"Oh,  afterwards!   I  am  speaking  of  before." 

"I'm  afraid  I  didn't  before." 

"You  are  on  your  oath.  Do  you  persist  in  swearing  that 
nothing  took  place  between  you  in  or  out  of  the  car  on  the 
night  of  February  the  third  in  that  dark  wood?" 

"I  do." 

"You  heard  the  enquiry  agent's  evidence  that,  when 
about  two  in  the  morning  he  stole  up  to  the  car  and  looked 
into  it,  he  saw  by  the  light  of  his  torch  that  you  were  both 
asleep  and  that  your  head  was  on  the  co-respondent's 
shoulder?" 

"Yes,  I  heard  that." 

"Is  it  true?" 

"If  I  was  asleep  how  can  I  say,  but  I  think  it's  quite 
likely.  I  had  put  my  head  there  early  on." 

"OhI  You  admit  that?" 

"Certainly.  It  was  more  comfortable.  I  had  asked  him 
if  he  minded." 

"And,  of  course,  he  didn't?" 

"I  thought  you  didn't  like  the  expression  'of  course/ 
but  anyway  he  said  he  didn't." 

"He  had  marvellous  control,  hadn't  he,  this  young  man, 
who  was  in  love  with  you?" 

"Yes,  I've  thought  since  that  he  had." 

"You  knew  then  that  he  must  have,  if  your  story  is  true. 
But  is  it  true,  Lady  Corven;  isn't  it  entirely  fantastic?" 

Dinny  saw  her  sister's  hands  clenching  on  the  rail,  and 
a  flood  of  crimson  coming  up  into  her  cheeks  and  ebbing 
again  before  she  answered: 

"It  may  be  fantastic,  but  it's  entirely  true.  Every- 
thing I've  said  in  this  box  is  true." 


260  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"And  then  in  the  morning  you  woke  up  as  if  nothing 
had  happened,  and  said:  'Now  we  can  go  home  and  have 
breakfast!'  And  you  went?  To  your  rooms?" 

"Yes." 

"How  long  did  he  stay  on  that  occasion?" 

"About  half  an  hour  or  a  little  more." 

"The  same  perfect  innocence  in  your  relations?" 

"The  same." 

"And  the  day  after  that  you  were  served  with  this 
petition?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  it  surprise  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Conscious  of  perfect  innocence,  you  were  quite  hurt 
in  your  feelings?" 

"Not  when  I  thought  about  things." 

"Oh,  not  when  you  thought  about  things?  What 
exactly  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"I  remembered  that  my  husband  had  said  I  must  look 
out  for  myself;  and  I  realised  how  silly  I  was  not  to  know 
that  I  was  being  watched." 

"Tell  me,  Lady  Corven,  why  did  you  defend  this 
action?" 

"Because  I  knew  that,  however  appearances  were 
against  us,  we  had  done  nothing." 

Dinny  saw  the  Judge  look  towards  Clare,  take  down  her 
answer,  hold  up  his  pen,  and  speak. 

"On  that  night  in  the  car  you  were  on  a  main  road. 
What  was  to  prevent  your  stopping  another  car  and  asking 
them  to  give  you  a  lead  into  Henley?" 

"I  don't  think  we  thought  of  it,  my  Lord;  I  did  ask 
Mr.  Croom  to  try  and  follow  one,  but  they  went  by  too 
quickly." 

"In  any  case,  what  was  there  to  prevent  your  walking 
into  Henley  and  leaving  the  car  in  the  wood?" 

"I  suppose  nothing  really,  only  it  would  have  been 


OVER     THE     RIVER  261 

midnight  before  we  got  to  Henley;  and  I  thought  it  would 
be  more  awkward  than  just  staying  in  the  car;  and  I  always 
had  wanted  to  try  sleeping  in  a  car.'* 

"And  do  you  still  want  to?" 

"No,  my  Lord,  it's  overrated." 

"Mr.  Brough,  I'll  break  for  luncheon." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

DINNY  refused  all  solicitations  to  lunch,  and,  taking  her 
sister's  arm,  walked  her  out  into  Carey  Street.  They 
circled  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  in  silence. 

"Nearly  over,  darling,"  she  said  at  last.  "You've  done 
wonderfully.  He  hasn't  really  shaken  you  at  all,  and  I 
believe  the  Judge  feels  that.  I  like  the  Judge  much  better 
than  the  jury." 

"OhI  Dinny,  I'm  so  tired.  That  perpetual  suggestion 
that  one's  lying  screws  me  up  till  I  could  scream." 

"That's  what  he  does  it  for.   Don't  gratify  him!" 

"And  poor  Tony.   I  do  feel  a  beast." 

"What  about  a  'nice  hot'  cup  of  tea?  We've  just  time." 

They  walked  down  Chancery  Lane  into  the  Strand. 

"Nothing  with  it,  dearest.  I  couldn't  eat." 

Neither  of  them  could  eat.  They  stirred  the  pot,  drank 
their  tea  as  strong  as  they  could  get  it,  and  made  their  way 
silently  back  to  the  Court.  Clare,  not  acknowledging  even 
her  father's  anxious  glance,  resumed  her  old  position  on 
the  front  bench,  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  her  eyes  cast 
down. 

Dinny  was  conscious  of  Jerry  Corven  sitting  deep  in 
confabulation  with  his  solicitor  and  counsel.  'Very  young* 
Roger,  passing  to  his  seat,  said: 

"They're  going  to  recall  Corven." 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  know." 

As  if  walking  in  his  sleep,  the  Judge  came  in,  bowed 
slightly  to  the  Court's  presence,  and  sat  down.  'Lower 
than  ever,'  thought  Dinny. 

"My  Lord,  before  resuming  my  cross-examination  of 
the  respondent,  I  should  be  glad,  with  your  permission,  to 

262 


OVER     THE     RIVER  263 

recall  the  petitioner  in  connection  with  the  point  of  which 
my  friend  made  so  much.  Your  Lordship  will  recollect 
that  in  his  cross-examination  of  the  petitioner  he  imputed 
to  him  the  intention  of  securing  a  divorce  from  the  moment 
of  his  wife's  departure.  The  petitioner  has  some  additional 
evidence  to  give  in  regard  to  that  point,  and  it  will  be 
more  convenient  for  me  to  recall  him  now.  I  shall  be  very 
short,  my  Lord." 

Dinny  saw  Clare's  face  raised  suddenly  to  the  Judge,  and 
the  expression  on  it  made  her  heart  beat  furiously. 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Brough." 

"Sir  Gerald  Corven." 

Watching  that  contained  figure  step  again  into  the  box, 
Dinny  saw  that  Clare  too  was  watching,  almost  as  if  she 
wished  to  catch  his  eye. 

"You  have  told  us,  Sir  Gerald,  that  on  the  last  occasion 
but  one  on  which  you  saw  your  wife  before  you  returned 
to  Ceylon — the  first  of  November,  that  is — you  saw  her  at 
her  rooms  in  Melton  Mews?" 

"Yes." 

Dinny  gasped.   It  had  come! 

"Now  on  that  occasion,  besides  any  conversation  that 
took  place  between  you,  what  else  occurred?" 

"We  were  husband  and  wife." 

"You  mean  that  the  marital  relationship  between  you 
was  re-established?" 

"Yes,  my  Lord." 

"Thank  you,  Sir  Gerald;  I  think  that  disposes  finally  of 
my  friend's  point;  and  it  is  all  I  wanted  to  ask." 

Instone  was  speaking. 

"Why  did  you  not  say  that  when  you  were  first 
examined?" 

"I  did  not  see  its  relevance  until  after  your  cross- 
examination." 

"Do  you  swear  that  you  have  not  invented  it?" 

"Most  certainly  I  do." 


264  OVER     THE     RIVER 

And  still  Dinny  sat  braced  against  the  woodwork  with 
her  eyes  shut,  thinking  of  the  young  man  three  rows  behind 
her.  AtrociousI  But  who  would  see  it,  here?  People's 
innermost  nerves  were  torn  out  of  them,  examined  coldly, 
almost  with  enjoyment,  and  put  back  lacerated. 

"Now,  Lady  Corven,  will  you  go  back  to  the  box?" 

When  Dinny  opened  her  eyes  Clare  was  standing  close 
up  to  the  rail  with  her  head  held  high  and  her  gaze  fixed 
on  her  questioner. 

"Now,  Lady  Corven,"  said  the  slow  rich  voice,  "you 
heard  that  piece  of  evidence." 

"Yes." 

"Is  it  true?" 

"I  do  not  wish  to  answer." 

"Why?" 

Dinny  saw  that  she  had  turned  to  the  Judge. 

"My  Lord,  when  my  counsel  asked  me  about  my 
married  life,  I  refused  to  go  into  it,  and  I  do  not  wish  to 
go  into  it  now." 

For  a  moment  the  Judge's  eyes  were  turned  towards  the 
box;  then  strayed  from  it  to  stare  at  the  unseen. 

"This  question  arises  out  of  evidence  given  in  rebuttal 
of  a  suggestion  made  by  your  own  counsel.  You  must 
answer  it." 

No  answer  came. 

"Ask  the  question  again,  Mr.  Brough." 

"Is  it  true  that  on  the  occasion  of  which  your  husband 
spoke  the  marital  relationship  was  re-established  between 
you?" 

"No.  It  is  not  true." 

Dinny,  who  knew  that  it  was,  looked  up.  The  Judge's 
eyes  were  still  fixed  above  her  head,  but  she  saw  the  slight 
pouting  of  his  lips.  He  did  not  believe  the  answer. 

The  slow  rich  voice  was  speaking,  and  she  caught  in  it 
a  peculiar  veiled  triumph. 

"You  swear  that?" 


OVERTHERIVER  265 

"Yes." 

"So  your  husband  has  gone  out  of  his  way  to  commit 
perjury  in  making  that  statement?" 

"It  is  his  word  against  mine." 

"And  I  think  I  know  which  will  be  taken.  Is  it  not  true 
that  you  have  made  the  answer  you  have  in  order  to 
save  the  feelings  of  the  co-respondent?" 

"It  is  not." 

"From  first  to  last,  can  we  attach  any  more  importance 
to  the  truth  in  any  of  your  answers  than  to  the  truth  in 
that  last?" 

"I  don't  think  that  is  a  fair  question,  Mr.  Brough.  The 
witness  does  not  know  what  importance  we  attach." 

"Very  good,  my  Lord.  I'll  put  it  another  way.  Throughout 
have  you  told  the  truth,  Lady  Corven,  and  nothing  but 
the  truth?" 

"I  have." 

"Very  well.  I  have  no  more  to  ask  you." 

During  the  few  questions  put  to  her  sister,  in  a  re- 
examination  which  carefully  avoided  the  last  point,  Dinny 
could  think  only  of  young  Groom.  At  heart  she  felt  the 
case  was  lost,  and  longed  to  take  Clare  and  creep  away.  If 
only  that  man  behind  with  the  hooked  nose  had  not  tried 
to  blacken  Corven  and  prove  too  much,  this  last  mine 
would  not  have  been  sprungl  And  yet — to  blacken  the 
other  side — what  was  it  but  the  essence  of  procedure! 

When  Clare  was  back  in  her  seat,  white  and  exhausted, 
she  whispered: 

"Would  you  like  to  come  away,  darling?" 

Clare  shook  her  head. 

"James  Bernard  Croom." 

For  the  first  time  since  the  case  began  Dinny  had  a  full 
view,  and  hardly  knew  him.  His  tanned  face  was  parched 
and  drawn;  he  looked  excessively  thin.  His  grey  eyes 
seemed  hiding  under  their  brows,  and  his  lips  were  bitter 
and  compressed.  He  looked  at  least  five  years  older,  and 


266  OVER     THE     RIVER 

she  knew  at  once  that  Clare's  denial  had  not  deceived  him. 

"Your  name  is  James  Bernard  Groom,  you  live  at 
Bablock  Hythe,  and  are  in  charge  of  a  horse-breeding 
establishment  there?  Have  you  any  private  means?" 

"None  whatever." 

It  was  not  Instone  who  was  examining,  but  a  younger 
man  with  a  sharper  nose,  seated  just  behind  him. 

"Up  to  September  last  year  you  were  superintending  a 
tea  plantation  in  Ceylon?  Did  you  ever  meet  the  respondent 
in  Ceylon?" 

"Never." 

"You  were  never  at  her  house?" 

"No." 

"You  have  heard  of  a  certain  polo  match  in  which  you 
played,  and  after  which  she  entertained  the  players?" 

"Yes,  but  I  didn't  go.   I  had  to  get  back." 

"Was  it  on  the  boat,  then,  that  you  first  met  her?" 

"Yes." 

"You  make  no  secret  of  the  fact  that  you  fell  in  love 
with  her?" 

"None." 

"In  spite  of  that,  is  there  any  truth  in  these  allegations 
of  misconduct  between  you?" 

"None  whatever." 

And  as  the  evidence  he  gave  to  the  Court  went  on  and 
on,  Dinny's  eyes  never  left  his  face,  as  if  fascinated  by  its 
constrained  but  bitter  unhappiness. 

"Now,  Mr.  Croom,  this  is  my  last  question:  You  are 
aware  that  if  these  allegations  of  misconduct  were  true,  you 
would  be  in  the  position  of  a  man  who  has  seduced  a  wife  in 
her  husband's  absence.  What  have  you  to  say  to  that?" 

"I  have  to  say  that  if  Lady  Corven  had  felt  for  me  what 
I  feel  for  her,  I  should  have  written  to  her  husband  at  once 
to  tell  him  the  state  of  things." 

"You  mean  that  you  would  have  given  him  warning 
before  anything  took  place  between  you?" 


OVER     THE     RIVER  267 

ftl  don't  say  that,  but  as  soon  as  possible." 

"But  she  did  not  feel  for  you  what  you  felt  for  her?" 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,  no." 

"So  that  in  fact  no  occasion  to  inform  the  husband  ever 
arose?" 

"No." 

"Thank  you." 

A  slight  stiffening  of  young  Groom's  figure  heralded 
Brough's  rich  slow  voice,  saying  with  peculiar  deliberation: 

"In  your  experience,  sir,  are  the  feelings  of  lovers 
towards  each  other  ever  the  same?" 

"I  have  no  experience." 

"No  experience?  You  know  the  French  proverb  as  to 
there  being  always  one  who  kisses  and  the  other  who  offers 
the  cheek  to  the  kiss?" 

"I've  heard  it." 

"Don't  you  think  it's  true?" 

"About  as  true  as  any  proverb." 

"According  to  the  stories  you  both  tell,  you  were  pur- 
suing in  her  husband's  absence  a  married  woman  who 
didn't  want  you  to  pursue  her?  Not  a  very  honourable 
position — yours — was  it?  Not  exactly  what  is  called 
'playing  the  game'?" 

"I  suppose  not." 

"But  I  suggest,  Mr.  Groom,  that  your  position  was 
not  as  dishonourable  as  all  that,  and  that  in  spite 
of  the  French  proverb  she  did  want  you  to  pursue 
her?" 

"She  did  not." 

"You  say  that  in  face  of  the  cabin  incident;  in  face  of 
her  getting  you  in  to  distemper  her  walls;  in  face  of  the 
invitation  to  tea  and  to  spend  over  half  an  hour  with  her 
at  nearly  midnight  in  those  convenient  rooms  of  hers;  in 
face  of  the  suggestion  that  you  should  spend  the  night 
with  her  in  a  car,  and  come  to  breakfast  the  morning 
after?  Come,  Mr.  Groom,  isn't  that  carrying  your  chivalry 


268  OVER     THE     RIVER 

rather  far?  What  you  say  has  to  convince  men  and  women 
of  the  world,  you  know." 

"I  can  only  say  that,  if  her  feelings  for  me  had  been 
what  mine  were  for  her,  we  should  have  gone  away 
together  at  once.  The  blame  is  entirely  mine,  and  she  has 
only  treated  me  kindly  because  she  was  sorry  for  me." 

"If  what  you  both  say  is  true,  she  gave  you  hell — I  beg 
your  pardon,  my  Lord — in  the  car,  didn't  she?  Was  that 
kind?" 

"When  a  person  is  not  in  love  I  don't  think  they  realise 
the  feelings  of  one  who  is." 

"Are  you  a  cold-blooded  person?" 

"No." 

"But  she  is?" 

"How  is  the  witness  to  know  that,  Mr.  Brough?" 

"My  Lord,  I  should  have  put  it:  But  you  think  she  is?" 

"I  do  not  think  so." 

"And  yet  you  would  have  us  think  that  she 
was  kind  in  letting  you  pass  the  night  with  her 
head  on  your  shoulder?  Well,  welll  You  say  if 
her  feelings  had  been  yours,  you  would  have  gone  away 
at  once.  What  would  you  have  gone  away  on?  Had  you 
any  money?" 

"Two  hundred  pounds." 

"And  she?" 

"Two  hundred  a  year,  apart  from  her  job." 

"Flown  away  and  lived  on  air,  eh?" 

"I  should  have  got  some  job." 

"Not  your  present  one?" 

"Probably  not." 

"I  suggest  that  both  of  you  felt  it  would  be  mad  to  fling 
your  caps  over  the  windmill  like  that?" 

"I  never  felt  so." 

"What  made  you  defend  this  action?" 

"I  wish  we  hadn't." 

"Then  why  did  you?" 


OVER     THE     RIVER  269 

"She  thought,  and  her  people  thought,  that  as  we  had 
done  nothing,  we  ought  to  defend." 

"But  you  didn't  think  so?" 

"I  didn't  think  we  should  be  believed,  and  I  wanted 
her  free." 

"Her  honour  didn't  occur  to  you?" 

"Of  course  it  did;  but  I  thought  for  her  to  stay  tied  was 
too  heavy  a  price  to  pay  for  it." 

"You  say  you  didn't  think  you'd  be  believed?  Altogether 
too  improbable  a  story?" 

"No;  but  the  more  one  speaks  the  truth,  the  less  one 
expects  to  be  believed." 

Dinny  saw  the  Judge  turn  and  look  at  him. 

"Are  you  speaking  generally?" 

"No,  my  Lord,  I  meant  here." 

The  Judge's  face  came  round  again  and  his  eyes  studied 
the  unseen  above  Dinny's  head. 

"I  am  considering,  you  know,  whether  I  should  commit 
you  for  contempt  of  Court." 

"I  am  sorry,  my  Lord;  what  I  meant  was  that  anything 
one  says  is  turned  against  one." 

"You  speak  out  of  inexperience.  I  will  let  it  pass  this 
time,  but  you  mustn't  say  things  of  that  sort  again.  Go 
on,  Mr.  Brough." 

"The  question  of  damages,  of  course,  didn't  affect  you 
in  making  up  your  mind  to  defend  this  action?" 

"No." 

"You  have  said  that  you  have  no  private  means.  Is  that 
true?" 

"Certainly." 

"Then  how  do  you  mean  that  it  didn't  affect 
you?" 

"I  was  thinking  so  much  of  other  things  that  bankruptcy 
didn't  seem  to  matter." 

"Now,  you  have  said  in  examination  that  you  were  not 
aware  of  Lady  Corven's  existence  until  you  were  on  this 


2y,0  OVER     THE     RIVER 

ship  coming  home.  Do  you  know  a  place  in  Ceylon  called 
Neuralya?" 

"No." 

"What?" 

Dinny  saw  a  faint  smile  creep  out  among  the  Judge's 
folds  and  wrinkles. 

"Put  the  question  another  way,  Mr.  Brough;  we 
generally  call  it  Neuralya." 

"I  know  Neuralya,  my  Lord." 

"Were  you  there  in  June  last?" 

"Yes." 

"Was  Lady  Corven  there?" 

"She  may  have  been." 

"Wasn't  she  in  the  same  hotel  as  you?" 

"No.  I  wasn't  in  an  hotel.  I  was  staying  with  a  friend." 

"And  you  did  not  meet  her  playing  golf  or  tennis,  or 
out  riding?" 

"I  did  not." 

"Or  anywhere?" 

"No." 

"Not  a  large  place,  is  it?" 

"Not  very." 

"And  she's  a  conspicuous  person,  isn't  she?" 

"I  think  so." 

"So  you  never  met  her  till  you  were  both  on  this  ship?" 

"No." 

"When  did  you  first  become  conscious  that  you  were 
in  love  with  her?" 

"About  the  second  or  third  day  out." 

"Love  almost  at  first  sight,  in  fact?" 

"Yes." 

"And  it  didn't  occur  to  you,  knowing  that  she  was  a 
married  woman,  to  avoid  her?" 

"I  knew  I  ought  to,  but  I  wasn't  able." 

"You  would  have  been  able  to  if  she  had  discouraged 
you?" 


OVER     THE     RIVER  2JI 

"I  don't  know." 

"Did  she  in  fact  discourage  you?" 

"N-no.  I  don't  think  she  was  aware  of  my  feelings  for 
some  time." 

"Women  are  very  quick  in  such  matters,  Mr.  Groom. 
Do  you  seriously  suggest  that  she  was  unaware?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Did  you  trouble  to  conceal  your  feelings?" 

"If  you  mean  did  I  make  love  to  her  on  the  ship — I  did 
not." 

"When  did  you  first  make  love  to  her?" 

"I  told  her  my  feelings  just  before  we  left  the  ship." 

"Was  there  any  real  reason  why  you  should  have  gone 
to  her  state-room  to  see  those  photographs?" 

"I  suppose  not." 

"Did  you  look  at  any  photographs  at  all?" 

"Certainly." 

"What  else  did  you  do?" 

"I  think  we  talked." 

"Don't  you  know?  This  was  an  occasion  for  you, 
wasn't  it?  Or  was  it  only  one  of  several  occasions  of  which 
we  have  not  been  told?" 

"It  was  the  only  time  I  was  inside  her  state-room." 

"In  that  case  surely  you  remember?" 

"We  just  sat  and  talked." 

"Beginning  to  remember,  eh?  Where  did  you  sit?" 

"In  the  chair." 

"And  where  did  she  sit?" 

"On  her  bed.  It  was  a  small  cabin — there  was  no  other 
chair." 

"An  outside  cabin?" 

"Yes." 

"No  chance  of  being  overlooked?" 

"No,  but  there  was  nothing  to  overlook." 

"So  you  both  say.  I  suppose  it  gave  you  something  of 
a  thrill,  didn't  it?" 


272  OVER     THE     RIVER 

Dinny  saw  the  Judge's  face  poked  forward. 

"I  don't  want  to  interrupt  you,  Mr.  Brough,  but  the 
witness  has  made  no  secret  of  his  feelings." 

"Very  well,  my  Lord.  I  will  put  it  to  him  bluntly.  I 
suggest,  sir,  that  on  that  occasion  there  was  misconduct 
between  you?" 

"There  was  none." 

"H'm!  Tell  the  jury  why  it  was  that  when  Sir  Gerald 
Corven  came  to  London  you  did  not  go  to  him  and  frankly 
avow  your  relations  with  his  wife." 

"What  relations?" 

"Come,  sir!  The  fact,  on  your  own  showing,  that  you 
were  seeing  all  you  could  of  his  wife;  the  fact  that  you 
were  in  love  with  her,  and  wanted  her  to  go  away  with 
you." 

"She  did  not  want  to  go  away  with  me.  I  would 
willingly  have  gone  to  her  husband,  but  I  had  no  right  to 
without  her  permission." 

"Did  you  ask  for  that  permission?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  she  had  told  me  we  could  only  meet  as 
friends." 

"I  suggest  she  told  you  nothing  of  the  sort?" 

"My  Lord,  that  is  asking  me  if  I  am  a  liar." 

"Answer  the  question." 

"I  am  not  a  liar." 

"That  is  the  answer,  I  think,  Mr.  Brough." 

"Tell  me,  sir:  you  heard  the  respondent's  evidence,  did 
it  strike  you  as  entirely  truthful?" 

Dinny  saw,  and  hoped  that  no  one  else  saw,  the 
quivering  of  his  face. 

"Yes,  so  far  as  I  could  judge." 

"It  was  perhaps  not  quite  a  fair  question.  But  I  may 
put  it  this  way:  If  the  respondent  were  to  say  that  she 
had  done,  or  not  done,  this  or  that,  you  would  feel  bound 


OVER     THE     RIVER  273 

in  honour  to  corroborate  her  statement,  where  you  could, 
and  to  believe  it  where  you  could  not?" 

"I  am  not  sure  that  is  quite  fair,  Mr.  Brough." 

"My  Lord,  I  submit  that  it  is  vital  to  my  case  to  establish 
to  the  jury  what  the  state  of  the  co-respondent's  mind  has 
been  throughout  this  business." 

"Well,  I  won't  stop  the  question,  but  there  is  a  limit, 
you  know,  to  these  generalities." 

Dinny  saw  the  first  flicker  of  a  smile  on  young  Groom's 
face. 

"My  Lord,  I  don't  at  all  mind  answering  the  question. 
I  do  not  know  what  I  should  feel  bound  in  honour  to  do, 
generally  speaking." 

"Well,  let  us  come  to  the  particular.  Lady  Corven  has 
said  that  she  could  trust  you  not  to  make  love  to  her. 
Would  you  say  that  was  true?" 

Dinny  saw  his  face  darken. 

"Not  quite  true.   But  she  knew  I  did  my  best  not  to." 

"But  now  and  then  you  couldn't  help  it?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  the  expression  'making 
love';  but  now  and  then  I  know  I  showed  my  feelings." 

"Now  and  then?  Mr.  Groom,  didn't  you  always  show 
your  feelings?" 

"If  you  mean  did  I  always  show  that  I  was  in  love  with 
her — of  course  I  did,  you  can't  hide  a  thing  like  that." 

"That  is  a  fair  admission.  I  don't  want  to  catch 
you.  I  mean  more  than  just  showing  by  your  face  and 
eyes  that  you  were  in  love.  I  mean  downright  physical 
expression." 

"Then  no,  except " 

"Yes?" 

"Kissing  her  cheek  three  times  altogether,  and  holding 
her  hand  sometimes." 

"So  much  she  has  admitted,  and  it  is  all  you  are  prepared 
to  swear  to?" 

"I  will  swear  there  was  no  more." 


274  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Tell  me,  did  you  sleep  at  all  during  that  night  in  the 
car,  when  her  head  was  on  your  shoulder?" 

"Yes." 

"Considering  the  state  of  your  feelings,  wasn't  that 
singular?" 

"Yes.  But  I  was  up  at  five  that  morning  and  I'd  driven 
a  hundred  and  fifty  miles." 

"You  seriously  expect  us  to  believe  that  after  nearly  five 
months  of  longing  you  took  no  advantage  of  that  mar- 
vellous opportunity,  but  just  went  to  sleep?" 

"I  took  no  advantage.  But  I  have  told  you  that  I  do  not 
expect  to  be  believed." 

"I  don't  wonder." 

For  a  long  time  the  slow  rich  voice  went  on  asking 
questions,  and  for  a  long  time  Dinny's  eyes  remained  fixed 
on  that  bitterly  unhappy  face,  till  a  sort  of  numbness  came 
over  her.  She  was  roused  by: 

"I  suggest  to  you,  sir,  that  from  beginning  to  end  of 
your  evidence  you  have  been  actuated  by  the  feeling  that 
you  must  do  everything  you  can  for  this  lady  without 
regard  to  your  own  consciousness  of  what  is  true?  That 
your  attitude,  in  fact,  has  been  one  of  distorted  chivalry?" 

"No." 

"Very  well.   That  is  all." 

Then  came  the  re-examination,  and  the  Judge's  releasing 
remark. 

Dinny  and  Clare  arose  and,  followed  by  their  father, 
walked  out  into  the  corridor,  and,  as  quickly  as  might  be, 
to  open  air. 

The  General  said: 

"Instone's  made  a  mess  of  it  with  that  quite  unnecessary 
point  of  his." 

Ckre  did  not  answer. 

"I  am  glad,"  said  Dinny.   "You'll  get  your  divorce." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  speeches  were  over,  and  the  Judge  was  summing  up. 
From  beside  her  father,  on  one  of  the  back  benches  now, 
Dinny  could  see  Jerry  Corven  still  sitting  in  front  beside 
his  solicitors,  and  Very  young*  Roger  sitting  alone.  Clare 
was  not  in  Court.  Neither  was  young  Croom. 

The  Judge's  voice  came  slowly,  as  if  struggling  past  his 
teeth.  It  seemed  to  Dinny  marvellous  how  he  remembered 
everything,  for  he  looked  but  little  at  his  notes;  nor  could 
she  detect  anything  that  was  not  fair  in  his  review  of  the 
evidence.  Now  and  again  his  eyes,  turned  towards  the 
jury,  seemed  to  close,  but  his  voice  never  stopped.  Now 
and  again  he  poked  his  neck  forward,  priest  and  tortoise 
for  a  moment  coalescing;  then  he  would  draw  it  back  and 
speak  as  it  were  to  himself. 

"The  evidence  not  being  of  the  conclusive  nature  which 
we  expect  of  evidence  tendered  to  this  Court" — (No 
'calling  with  a  cup  of  tea,'  she  thought),  "counsel  for  the 
petitioner  in  his  able  speech  laid  great  stress,  and  rightly, 
upon  credibility.  He  directed  your  attention  especially  to 
the  respondent's  denial  that  there  was  any  renewal  of  the 
marital  relationship  between  the  petitioner  and  herself  on 
the  occasion  when  he  went  to  her  rooms.  He  suggested 
that  there  was  reason  for  her  denial  in  her  desire  to  spare 
the  feelings  of  the  co-respondent.  But  you  must  consider 
whether  a  woman  who,  as  she  says,  was  not  in  love  with 
the  co-respondent,  had  not  encouraged  him,  or  been 
intimate  with  him  in  any  way,  would  go  so  far  as  to  perjure 
herself  to  save  his  feelings.  According  to  her  account,  he 
was  from  the  beginning  of  their  acquaintanceship  in  the 
nature  of  a  friend  to  her  and  nothing  more.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  you  believe  the  petitioner  on  that  point — and  there 

275  s 


Zj6  OVER     THE     RIVER 

seems  no  sufficient  reason  for  his  volunteering  perjury — it 
follows  that  you  disbelieve  the  respondent,  and  she  has 
deliberately  denied  evidence  which  was  in  her  favour 
rather  than  against  her.  It  seems  difficult  to  believe  that 
she  would  do  that  unless  she  had  feelings  for  the  co- 
respondent warmer  than  those  of  mere  friendship.  This 
is,  in  fact,  a  very  crucial  point,  and  the  decision  you  come 
to  as  to  which  is  true — the  husband's  statement  or  the 
wife's  denial  of  it — seems  to  me  a  cardinal  factor  in  your 
consideration  of  whether  or  not  to  accept  the  respondent's 
evidence  in  the  rest  of  the  case.-  You  have  only  what  is 
called  circumstantial  evidence  to  go  upon;  and  in  such 
cases  the  credibility  of  the  parties  is  a  very  important  factor. 
If  on  one  point  you  are  satisfied  that  one  of  the  parties  is 
not  speaking  the  truth,  then  the  whole  of  his  or  her  evi- 
dence is  tinged  with  doubt.  In  regard  to  the  co-respondent, 
though  he  conveyed  an  impression  of  candour,  you  must 
remember  that  there  is  a  traditional  belief  in  this  country, 
regrettable  or  not,  that  a  man  whose  attentions  have 
involved  a  married  woman  in  a  situation  of  this  kind  must 
not,  in  vulgar  parlance,  'give  her  away/  You  must  ask 
yourselves  how  far  you  can  treat  this  young  man,  who  is 
quite  obviously,  and  by  his  own  admission,  deeply  in  love, 
as  a  free,  independent,  truthful  witness. 

"On  the  other  hand,  and  apart  from  this  question  of 
general  credibility,  you  must  not  let  appearances  run  away 
with  your  judgment.  In  these  days  young  people  are  free 
and  ea^  in  their  association  with  each  other.  What  might 
have  seemed  conclusive  indication  in  the  days  of  my  youth 
is  now  by  no  means  conclusive.  In  regard  to  the  night, 
however,  that  was  spent  in  the  car,  you  may  think  it  well 
to  pay  particular  attention  to  the  answer  the  respondent 
gave  to  my  question:  Why,  when  the  lights  went  out,  they 
did  not  simply  stop  a  passing  car,  tell  the  occupants  what 
had  happe'n/ed,  and  request  to  be  given  a  lead  into  Henley. 
Her  answer  was:  I  don't  think  we  thought  of  it,  my  Lord. 


OVER     THE     RIVER  277 

I  did  ask  Mr.  Groom  to  follow  a  car,  but  it  was  going  too 
fast.'  It  is  for  you  to  consider,  in  the  light  of  that  answer, 
whether  the  respondent  really  wanted  that  simple  solution 
of  the  difficulty  they  were  in,  namely,  a  lead  into  Henley, 
where  no  doubt  the  damage  could  have  been  repaired;  or 
whence  at  least  she  could  have  returned  to  London  by 
train.  It  is  said  by  her  counsel  that  to  have  gone  into 
Henley  at  that  time  with  a  damaged  car  would  have  made 
them  too  conspicuous.  But  you  will  remember  that  she 
has  said  she  was  not  aware  that  she  was  being  watched. 
If  that  was  so,  you  will  consider  whether  the  question  of 
conspicuosity  would  have  been  present  to  her  mind." 

Dinny's  gaze  by  now  had  left  the  Judge's  face  and  was 
fixed  upon  the  jury.  And,  while  she  searched  the  lack  of 
expression  on  those  twelve  faces,  a  'cardinal  factor*  was 
uppermost  in  her  mind:  It  was  easier  to  disbelieve  than  to 
believe.  Remove  whatever  tempering  influence  there 
might  be  from  a  witness's  voice  and  face,  and  would  not 
the  spicier  version  of  events  prevail?  The  word  'damages' 
took  her  eyes  back  to  the  Judge's  face. 

"Because,"  he  was  saying,  "if  you  should  come  to  a 
decision  in  favour  of  the  petitioner,  the  question  of  the 
damages  he  claims  will  arise.  And  in  regard  to  that  I  must 
draw  your  attention  to  one  or  two  salient  considerations. 
It  cannot  be  said  that  claims  for  damages  in  divorce  suits 
are  common  in  these  days,  or  indeed  looked  on  with  any 
great  favour  in  this  Court.  It  has  become  disagreeable  to 
think  of  women  in  terms  of  money.  Not  much  more  than 
a  hundred  years  ago  it  was  actually  not  unknown — though 
illegal  even  then — for  a  man  to  offer  his  wife  for  sale.  Such 
days — thank  GodI— are  long  past.  Though  damages  can 
still  be  asked  for  in  this  Court,  they  must  not  be  what  is 
called  'vindictive,'  and  they  must  bear  reasonable  relation 
to  the  co-respondent's  means.  In  this  case  the  petitioner 
has  stated  that  if  any  damages  are  awarded  him?  they  will 
be  settled  on  the  respondent.  That  is,  one  may  say,  the 


278  OVER     THE     RIVER 

usual  practice  nowadays  where  damages  are  claimed.  In 
regard  to  the  co-respondent's  means,  if  it  should  become 
necessary  for  you  to  consider  the  question  of  damages,  I 
would  remind  you  that  his  counsel  stated  that  he  has  no 
private  means,  and  offered  to  provide  evidence  of  the  fact. 
One  has  never  known  counsel  to  make  a  statement  of  that 
sort  without  being  sure  of  his  ground,  and  I  think  you 
may  take  the  co-respondent's  word  for  it  that  his  only 
means  of  subsistence  are  derived  from  his — er — 'job,' 
which  appears  to  carry  a  salary  of  four  hundred  pounds  a 
year.  Those,  then,  are  the  considerations  which  should 
guide  you  if  you  should  have  to  consider  the  amount,  if 
any,  of  damages  to  be  awarded.  Now,  members  of  the 
jury,  I  send  you  to  your  task.  The  issues  are  grave  for  the 
future  of  these  people,  and  I  am  sure  that  I  can  trust  you 
to  give  them  your  best  attention.  You  may  retire  if  you 
wish  to  do  so." 

Dinny  was  startled  by  the  way  he  withdrew  almost  at 
once  into  contemplation  of  a  document  which  he  raised 
from  the  desk  in  front. 

'He  really  is  an  old  ducky,'  she  thought,  and  her  gaze 
went  back  to  the  jury  rising  from  their  seats.  Now  that 
the  ordeals  of  her  sister  and  Tony  Groom  were  over,  she 
felt  very  little  interested.  Even  the  Court  to-day  was  but 
sparsely  filled. 

'They  only  came  to  enjoy  the  suffering,'  was  her  bitter 
thought. 

A  voice  said: 

"Clare  is  still  in  the  Admiralty  Court  when  you  want 
her."  Dornford,  in  wig  and  gown,  was  sitting  down  beside 
her.  "How  did  the  Judge  sum  up?" 

"Very  fairly." 

"He  is  fair." 

"But  barristers,  I  think,  might  wear:  'Fairness  is  a  virtue, 
a  little  more  won't  hurt  you,'  nicely  printed  on  their 
collars." 


OVER     THE     RIVER  279 

"You  might  as  well  print  it  round  the  necks  of  hounds 
on  a  scent.  Still,  even  this  Court  isn't  as  bad  in  that  way 
as  it  used  to  be." 

"I'm  so  glad." 

He  sat  quite  still,  looking  at  her.   And  she  thought: 

'His  wig  suits  the  colour  of  his  face.' 

Her  father  leaned  across  her. 

"How  long  do  they  give  you  to  pay  costs  in,  Dornford?" 

"A  fortnight  is  the  usual  order,  but  you  can  get  it 
extended." 

"It's  a  foregone  conclusion,"  said  the  General  glumly. 
"Well,  she'll  be  free  of  him." 

"Where  is  Tony  Groom?"  asked  Dinny. 

"I  saw  him  as  I  came  in.  At  the  corridor  window — 
quite  close.  You  can't  miss  him.  Shall  I  go  and  tell  him 
to  wait?" 

"If  you  would." 

"Then  will  you  all  come  to  my  chambers  when  it's 
over?"  Receiving  their  nods,  he  went  out,  and  did  not 
come  back. 

Dinny  and  her  father  sat  on.  An  usher  brought  the 
Judge  a  written  communication;  he  wrote  upon  it,  and  the 
usher  took  it  back  to  the  jury.  Almost  immediately  they 
came  in. 

The  broad  and  pleasant  face  of  her  who  looked  like  a 
housekeeper  had  a  mortified  expression  as  if  she  had  been 
over-ridden;  and,  instantly,  Dinny  knew  what  was  coming. 

"Members  of  the  jury,  are  you  agreed  on  your  verdict?" 

The  foreman  rose. 

"We  are." 

"Do  you  find  the  respondent  guilty  of  adultery  with  the 
co-respondent?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  find  the  co-respondent  guilty  of  adultery  with 
the  respondent?" 

'Isn't  that  the  same?'  thought  Dinny. 


280  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Yes." 

"And  what  damages  do  you  say  the  co-respondent 
should  be  ordered  to  pay?" 

"We  think  that  he  should  pay  the  costs  of  all  the  parties 
to  the  action." 

Through  Dinny  passed  the  thought:  'The  more  one 
loves  the  more  one  pays/  Barely  listening  to  the  Judge's 
words,  she  whispered  to  her  father,  and  slipped  away. 

Young  Groom  was  leaning  against  the  stone  that  framed 
the  window,  and  she  thought  she  had  never  seen  so 
desolate  a  figure. 

"Well,  Dinny?" 

"Lost.  No  damages,  just  all  the  costs.  Come  out,  I 
want  to  talk  to  you." 

They  went  in  silence. 

"Let's  go  and  sit  on  the  Embankment." 

Young  Groom  laughed.  "The  Embankment!  Mar- 
vellousl" 

No  other  word  passed  between  them  till  they  were  seated 
under  a  plane  tree  whose  leaves  were  not  yet  fully  unfurled 
in  that  cold  spring. 

"Rottenl"  said  Dinny. 

"I've  been  a  complete  fool  all  through,  and  there's  an 
end  of  it." 

"Have  you  had  anything  to  eat  these  last  two  days?" 

"I  suppose  so.   I've  drunk  quite  a  lot,  anyway." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now,  dear  boy?" 

"See  Jack  Muskham,  and  try  and  get  another  job  some- 
where out  of  England." 

Dinny  felt  as  if  she  had  grasped  a  stick  by  the  wrong  end. 
She  could  only  be  helpful  if  she  knew  Clare's  feelings. 

"No  one  takes  advice,"  she  said,  "but  couldn't  you 
manage  to  do  nothing  at  all  for  a  month  or  so?" 

"I  don't  know$  Dinny." 

"Have  those  mares  come?" 

"Not  yet." 


OVER     THE     RIVER  281 

"Surely  you  won't  give  that  job  up  before  it's  even 
begun?" 

"It  seems  to  me  I've  only  got  one  job  at  the  moment — 
to  keep  going  somehow,  somewhere." 

"Don't  I  know  that  feeling?  But  don't  do  anything 
desperate!  Promise!  Good-bye,  my  dear,  I  must  hurry 
back." 

She  stood  up  and  pressed  his  hand  hard. 

When  she  reached  Dornford's  chambers,  her  father  and 
Clare  were  already  there,  and  Very  young'  Roger  with 
them. 

Clare's  face  looked  as  though  the  whole  thing  had 
happened  to  someone  else. 

The  General  was  saying: 

"What  will  the  total  costs  come  to,  Mr.  Forsyte?" 

"Not  far  short  of  a  thousand,  I  should  say." 

"A  thousand  pounds  for  speaking  the  truth!  We  can't 
possibly  let  young  Croom  pay  more  than  his  own  share. 
He  hasn't  a  bob." 

'Very  young*  Roger  took  snuff. 

"Well,"  said  the  General,  "I  must  go  and  put  my  wife 
out  of  her  misery.  We're  going  back  to  Condaford  this 
afternoon,  Dinny.  Coming?" 

Dinny  nodded. 

"Good!  Many  thanks,  Mr.  Forsyte.  Early  in  November, 
then — the  decree?  Good-bye!" 

When  he  had  gone  Dinny  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"Now  that  it's  over,  what  do  you  really  think?" 

"As  I  did  at  first:  If  you'd  been  your  sister  we  should 
have  won." 

"I  want,"  said  Dinny  coldly,  "to  know  whether  you 
believe  them  or  not?" 

"On  the  whole— yes." 

"Is  it  impossible  for  a  lawyer  to  go  further  than 
that?" 

'Very  young*  Roger  smiled. 


282  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"No  one  tells  the  truth  without  mental  reservations  of 
some  kind." 

'Perfectly  true,'  thought  Dinny.  "Could  we  have  a 
taxi?" 

In  the  cab  Clare  said:  "Do  something  for  me,  Dinny. 
Bring  me  my  things  to  the  Mews." 

"Of  course." 

"I  don't  feel  like  Condaford.   Did  you  see  Tony?" 

"Yes." 

"How  is  he?" 

"Rotten." 

"Rottenl"  repeated  Clare,  bitterly.  "How  could  I  help 
what  they  sprung  on  me?  I  lied  for  him,  anyway." 

Dinny,  looking  straight  before  her,  said: 

"When  you  can,  tell  me  exactly  what  your  feeling 
towards  him  is." 

"When  I  know  myself,  I  will." 

"You'll  want  something  to  eat,  darling." 

"Yes,  I'm  hungry.  I'll  stop  here  in  Oxford  Street.  I 
shall  be  cleaning  up  when  you  come  with  my  things.  I 
feel  as  if  I  could  sleep  the  clock  round,  and  probably  I 
shan't  sleep  a  wink.  When  you're  divorced,  Dinny,  don't 
defend — you  keep  on  thinking  of  better  answers." 

Dinny  squeezed  her  arm,  and  took  the  taxi  on  to  South 
Square. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

MORE  deadly  than  the  atmosphere  during  a  fight  is  that 
when  it  is  over.  You  'keep  on  thinking  of  better  answers/ 
and  you  feel  that  life  is  not  worth  living.  The  primary  law 
of  existence  having  been  followed  to  its  logical  and — win 
or  lose — unsatisfying  conclusion,  the  sand  is  out  of  your 
dolly,  you  loll  and  droop.  Such  were  the  sensations  of 
Dinny,  who  had  but  understudied.  Unable  to  feel  that  she 
could  be  of  any  real  help,  she  fell  back  on  pigs,  and  had 
been  for  a  good  week  in  this  posture  when  she  received  a 
letter  headed: 

"Kingson  Cuthcott  &  Forsyte, 
"Old  Jewry. 

"May  lyth,  1932. 
"My  DEAR  Miss  CHARWELL, — 

"I  write  to  tell  you  that  we  have  succeeded  in  coming  to 
an  arrangement  by  which  the  costs  of  the  action  will  be 
met  without  making  any  call  upon  either  Mr.  Groom  or 
your  sister.  I  shall  be  grateful  if  you  could  take  an  oppor- 
tunity of  relieving  their  minds  and  also  your  father's  mind 
in  the  matter. 

"Believe  me,  my  dear  Miss  Charwell, 
"Very  faithfully  yours, 

"ROGER  FORSYTE." 

Reaching  her  on  a  really  warm  morning,  to  sound  of 
mowing  machine  and  to  scent  of  grass,  it  would  have 
'intrigued*  her  if  she  had  not  detested  the  word.  She 
turned  from  the  window  and  said: 

"The  lawyers  say  we  need  none  of  us  worry  any  more 
about  those  costs,  dad;  they've  come  to  an  arrangement." 

283 


284  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"How?" 

"They  don't  say,  but  they  want  your  mind  relieved." 

"I  don't  understand  lawyers,"  muttered  the  General, 
"but  if  they  say  it's  all  right,  I'm  very  glad.  I've  been 
worrying." 

"Yes,  dear.   Coffee?" 

But  she  resumed  her  meditations  on  that  cryptic  letter. 
Did  something  in  Jerry  Corven's  conduct  force  him  to 
agree  to  this  'arrangement'?  Was  there  not  someone  called 
'The  King's  Proctor*  who  could  stop  decrees  being 
granted?  Or — what? 

Abandoning  her  first  idea  of  driving  over  to  Tony 
Groom  because  of  the  questions  he  might  ask,  she  wrote 
to  him  and  to  Clare  instead.  The  more,  however,  she 
pondered  over  the  wording  of  the  solicitor's  letter,  the 
more  convinced  she  became  that  she  must  see  'very  young' 
Roger.  There  was  that  at  the  back  of  her  mind  which 
refused  quietus.  She,  therefore,  arranged  to  see  him  at  a 
teashop  near  the  British  Museum  on  his  way  homeward 
from  the  City,  and  went  there  direct  from  her  train.  The 
place  was  an  'artifact,'  designed,  so  far  as  a  Regency  edifice 
could  be,  to  reproduce  such  a  'coffee  house'  as  Boswell 
and  Johnson  might  have  frequented.  Its  floor  was  not 
sanded,  but  looked  as  if  it  should  be.  There  were  no  long 
clay  pipes,  but  there  were  long  cardboard  cigarette-holders. 
The  furniture  was  wooden,  the  light  dim.  No  record 
having  been  discovered  of  what  the  'staff'  should  look  like, 
they  looked  sea-green.  Prints  of  old  coaching  inns  were 
hung  on  walls  panelled  by  the  Tottenham  Court  Road. 
Quite  a  few  patrons  were  drinking  tea  and  smoking 
cigarettes.  None  of  them  used  the  long  cardboard  holders. 
'Very  young'  Roger,  limping  slightly,  and  with  his 
customary  air  of  not  being  quite  what  he  ought  to  be, 
uncovered  his  sandyish  head  and  smiled  above  his 
chin. 

"China  or  Indian?"  said  Dinny. 


OVER     THE     RIVER  285 

"Whatever  you're  having." 

"Then  two  coffees,  please,  and  muffins." 

"MuffinsI  This  is  a  treat,  dear  papa.  Those  are  quite 
good  old  copper  bed- warmers,  Miss  Cherrell.  I  wonder 
if  they'd  sell  them." 

"Do  you  collect?" 

"Pick  things  up.  No  use  having  a  Queen  Anne  house 
unless  you  can  do  something  for  it." 

"Does  your  wife  sympathise?" 

"No,  she's  all  for  the  T.C.R.,  bridge,  golf,  and  the 
modernities.  I  never  can  keep  my  hands  off  old  silver." 

"I  have  to,"  murmured  Dinny.  "Your  letter  was  a  very 
pleasant  relief.  Did  you  really  mean  that  we  should  none 
of  us  have  to  pay?" 

"I  did." 

She  considered  her  next  question,  scrutinising  him 
through  her  lashes.  With  all  his  aesthetic  leanings,  he 
looked  uncommonly  spry. 

"In  confidence,  Mr.  Forsyte,  how  did  you  manage  to 
make  that  arrangement?  Had  it  to  do  with  my  brother- 
in-law?" 

'Very  young*  Roger  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart. 

"  'The  tongue  of  Forsyte  is  his  own/  cf.  Marmion.  But 
you  needn't  worry." 

"I  need,  or  shall,  unless  I  know  it  wasn't  that." 

"Make  your  mind  easy,  then;  it  had  nothing  to  do  with 
Corven." 

Dinny  ate  a  muffin  in  complete  silence,  then  spoke  of 
period  silver.  'Very  young'  Roger  gave  an  erudite  dis- 
sertation on  its  mark — if  she  would  come  down  for  a 
week-end,  he  would  turn  her  into  a  connoisseur. 

They  parted  cordially,  and  Dinny  went  towards  her 
Uncle  Adrian's.  That  uneasiness  was  still  at  the  back 
of  her  mind.  The  trees  had  leaved  enticingly  these 
last  warm  days;  the  Square  wherein  he  dwelled  had 
an  air  quiet  and  green,  as  if  inhabited  by  minds.  Nobody 


286  OVER     THE     RIVER 

was  at  home.  "But,"  said  the  maid,  "Mr.  Cherrell 
is  sure  to  be  in  about  six,  miss." 

Dinny  waited  in  a  small  panelled  room  full  of  books  and 
pipes  and  photographs  of  Diana  and  the  two  Ferse 
children.  An  old  collie  kept  her  company,  and  through 
the  opened  window  seeped  the  sounds  of  London  streets. 
She  was  crumpling  the  dog's  ears  when  Adrian  came  in. 

"Well,  Dinny,  so  it's  over.   I  hope  you  feel  better." 

Dinny  handed  him  the  letter. 

"I  know  it's  nothing  to  do  with  Jerry  Corven.  You 
know  Eustace  Dornford,  Uncle.  I  want  you  to  find  out 
from  him  quietly  whether  it's  he  who  is  paying  these  costs." 

Adrian  pulled  at  his  beard. 

"I  don't  suppose  he'd  tell  me." 

"Somebody  must  have  paid  them,  and  I  can  only  think 
of  him.  I  don't  want  to  go  to  him  myself." 

Adrian  looked  at  her  intently.  Her  face  was  concerned 
and  brooding. 

"Not  easy,  Dinny;  but  I'll  try.  What's  going  to  happen 
to  those  two?" 

"I  don't  know,  they  don't  know;  nobody  knows." 

"How  are  your  people  taking  it?" 

"Terribly  glad  it's  over,  and  don't  care  much  now  it  is. 
You'll  let  me  know  soon,  won't  you,  Uncle  dear?" 

"I  will,  my  dear;  but  I  shall  probably  draw  blank." 

Dinny  made  for  Melton  Mews,  and  met  her  sister  on 
the  doorstep.  Clare's  cheeks  were  flushed;  there  was 
febrility  in  her  whole  manner  and  appearance. 

"I've  asked  Tony  Groom  here  this  evening,"  she  said, 
when  Dinny  was  leaving  to  catch  her  train.  "One  must 
pay  one's  debts." 

"OhI"  murmured  Dinny,  and  for  the  life  of  her  could 
say  no  more. 

The  words  haunted  her  in  the  bus  to  Paddington,  in  the 
refreshment  room  while  she  ate  a  sandwich,  in  the  railway 
carriage  going  home.  Pay  one's  debtsl  The  first  canon  of 


OVER     THE     RIVER  287 

self-respect!  Suppose  Dornford  had  paid  those  costs!  Was 
she  as  precious  as  all  that?  Wilfrid  had  had  all  of  her 
according  to  her  heart  and  her  hope  and  her  desire.  If 
Dornford  wanted  what  was  left  over — why  not?  She 
dropped  thinking  of  herself  and  went  back  to  thought  of 
Clare.  Had  she  paid  her  debt  by  now?  Transgressors  by 
law — ought  to  transgress!  And  yet — so  much  future  could 
be  compromised  in  so  few  minutes! 

She  sat  very  still.  And  the  train  rattled  on  in  the  dying 
twilight. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

TONY  GROOM  had  spent  a  miserable  week  in  his  converted 
cottages  at  Bablock  Hythe.  The  evidence  given  by  Corven 
on  his  recall  to  the  box  had  seared  him,  nor  had  Clare's 
denial  anointed  the  burn.  In  this  young  man  was  an  old- 
fashioned  capacity  for  jealousy.  That  a  wife  should  accept 
her  husband's  embrace  was  not,  of  course,  unknown;  but, 
in  the  special  circumstances  and  states  of  feeling,  it  had 
seemed  to  him  improper,  if  not  monstrous,  and  the  giving 
of  his  own  evidence,  directly  after  such  a  thrust  at  his 
vitals,  had  but  inflamed  the  wound.  A  sad  unreason 
governs  sex;  to  be  aware  that  he  had  no  right  to  be 
suffering  brought  no  relief.  And  now,  a  week  after  the 
trial,  receiving  her  note  of  invitation,  he  had  the  impulse 
not  to  answer,  to  answer  and  upbraid,  to  answer  'like  a 
gentleman* — and,  all  the  time,  he  knew  he  would  just 
go  up. 

With  nothing  clear  in  his  mind  and  that  bruise  still  in 
his  heart,  he  reached  the  Mews  an  hour  after  Dinny  had 
gone.  Clare  let  him  in,  and  they  stood  looking  at  each 
other  for  a  minute  without  speaking.  At  last  she  said  with 
a  laugh: 

"Well,  Tony!  Funny  business — the  whole  thing, 
wasn't  it?" 

"Exquisitely  humorous." 

"You  look  ill." 

"You  look  fine." 

And  she  did,  in  a  red  frock  open  at  the  neck,  and  without 
sleeves. 

"Sorry  I'm  not  dressed,  Ckre.  I  didn't  know  you'd 
want  to  go  out." 

"I  don't.  We're  going  to  dine  in.  You  can  leave  the 
288 


OVER     THE     RIVER  289 

car  out  there,  and  stay  as  long  as  you  like,  and  nobody  the 
worse.  Isn't  it  nice?" 

"Clare!" 

"Put  your  hat  down  and  come  upstairs.  I've  made  a 
new  cocktail." 

"I  take  this  chance  to  say  I'm  bitterly  sorry." 

"Don't  be  an  idiot,  Tony."  She  began  to  mount  the 
spiral  stairway,  turning  at  the  top.  "Gomel" 

Dropping  his  hat  and  driving  gloves,  he  followed  her. 

To  the  eyes  of  one  throbbing  and  distraught,  the  room 
above  had  an  air  of  preparation,  as  if  for  ceremony,  or — 
was  it  sacrifice?  The  little  table  was  set  out  daintily  with 
flowers,  a  narrow-necked  bottle,  green  glasses — the  couch 
covered  with  some  jade-green  stuff  and  heaped  with  bright 
cushions.  The  windows  were  open,  for  it  was  hot,  but  the 
curtains  were  nearly  drawn  across  and  the  light  turned  on. 
He  went  straight  across  to  the  window,  stifled  by  the 
violent  confusion  within  him. 

"In  spite  of  the  Law's  blessing,  better  close  the  curtains," 
said  Clare.  "Would  you  like  a  wash?" 

He  shook  his  head,  drew  the  curtains  close,  and  sat  on 
the  sill.  Clare  had  dropped  on  to  the  sofa. 

"I  couldn't  bear  to  see  you  in  the  box,  Tony.  I  owe 
you  a  lot." 

"Owe!   You  owe  me  nothing.   It's  I 1" 

"No!  I  am  the  debtor." 

With  her  bare  arms  crossed  behind  her  neck,  her  body 
so  graceful,  her  face  a  little  tilted  up — there  was  all  he  had 
dreamed  about  and  longed  for  all  these  months!  There 
she  was,  infinitely  desirable,  seeming  to  say:  'Here  I  am! 
Take  me!'  and  he  sat  staring  at  her.  The  moment  he  had 
yearned  and  yearned  for,  and  he  could  not  seize  it! 

"Why  so  far  off,  Tony?" 

He  got  up,  his  lips  trembling,  every  limb  trembling, 
came  as  far  as  the  table,  and  stood  gripping  the  back  of  a 
chair.  His  eyes  fixed  on  her  eyes,  searched  and  searched. 


290  OVER     THE     RIVER 

What  was  behind  those  dark  eyes  looking  up  at  him? 
Not  lovel  The  welcome  of  duty?  The  payment  of  a 
debt?  The  toleration  of  a  pal?  The  invitation  of  one 
who  would  have  it  over  and  done  with?  But  not  love, 
with  its  soft  gleam.  And,  suddenly,  there  came  before  his 
eyes  the  image  of  her  and  Corven — there!  He  covered  his 
face  with  his  arm,  rushed  headlong  down  those  twisting 
iron  stairs,  seized  hat  and  gloves,  and  dashed  out  into  his 
car.  His  mind  did  not  really  work  again  till  he  was  far 
along  the  Uxbridge  Road;  and  how  he  had  got  there  with- 
out disaster  he  could  not  conceive.  He  had  behaved  like 
a  perfect  fool!  He  had  behaved  exactly  as  he  had  tol  The 
startled  look  on  her  facel  To  be  treated  as  a  creditor!  To 
be  paid!  There!  On  that  sofa!  No!  He  drove  again  with 
a  sort  of  frenzy,  and  was  brought  up  sharply  by  a  lorry 
lumbering  along  in  front.  The  night  was  just  beginning, 
moonlit  and  warm.  He  turned  the  car  into  a  gateway  and 
got  out.  Leaning  against  the  gate,  he  filled  and  lit  his 
pipe.  Where  was  he  going?  Home?  What  use?  What 
use  going  anywhere?  His  brain  cleared  suddenly.  Drive 
to  Jack  Muskham's,  release  himself,  and — Kenya!  He  had 
money  enough  for  that.  A  job  would  turn  up.  But  stay 
here?  No!  Lucky  those  mares  hadn't  come!  He  got  over 
the  gate  and  sat  down  on  the  grass.  Relaxed  against  the 
bank  he  looked  up.  Lot  of  stars!  What  had  he — fifty 
pounds — sixty — nothing  owing!  An  East  African  boat — 
go  steerage!  Anything — anywhere  away!  Close  to  him  on 
the  bank  were  ox-eyed  daisies  slowly  brightening  in  the 
moonlight;  the  air  was  scented  by  ripening  grass.  If  in 
her  eyes  there  had  been  one  look  of  love!  He  let  his  head 
fall  back  on  the  grass.  Not  her  fault  she  didn't  love  him! 
His  misfortune!  Home — get  his  kit  together,  lock  up, 
straight  to  Muskham's!  It  would  take  all  the  night!  See 
those  lawyers — Dinny,  too,  if  possible!  But  Ckre?  No! 
His  pipe  ceased  to  draw;  the  moon  and  stars,  the  ox-eyed 
daisies,  the  grassy  scent,  the  shadows  creeping  out,  the 


OVER     THE     RIVER  29! 

feel  of  the  bank,  lost  all  power  to  soothe.  Get  on,  do 
something,  go  on  doing  something,  till  he  was  again  on 
shipboard  and  away.  He  got  up,  climbed  back  over  the 
gate,  and  started  his  engine.  He  kept  straight  on,  in- 
stinctively avoiding  the  route  through  Maidenhead  and 
Henley.  He  passed  through  High  Wycombe  and  ap- 
proached Oxford  from  the  north.  The  old  town  was  lit 
up  and  in  evening  feather  when  he  dropped  down  on  it 
from  Headington  and  threaded  into  the  quiet  Cumnor 
road.  On  the  little  old  New  Bridge  over  the  Upper  Thames 
he  stopped.  Something  special  about  this  upper  river, 
quiet  and  winding,  and  withdrawn  from  human  blatancy! 
In  full  moonlight  now  the  reeds  glistened  and  the  willows 
seemed  to  drip  silver  into  the  water,  dark  below  their 
branches.  Some  windows  in  the  inn  beyond  were  lamp- 
lit,  but  no  sound  of  gramophone  came  forth.  With  the 
moon  riding  so  high,  the  stars  now  were  but  a  pricking 
of  the  grape-coloured  sky;  the  scent  from  the  reedy  banks 
and  the  river  fields,  after  a  whole  week  of  warmth,  mounted 
to  his  nostrils,  sweet  and  a  little  rank.  It  brought  a  sudden 
wave  of  sheer  sex-longing — so  often  and  so  long  had  he 
dreamed  of  Clare  and  himself  in  love  on  this  winding 
field-scented  stream.  He  started  the  car  with  a  jerk,  and 
turned  past  the  inn  down  the  narrowed  road.  In  twenty 
minutes  he  stood  in  the  doorway  of  his  cottage,  looking 
into  the  moonlit  room  he  had  left  sunlit  seven  hours 
before.  There  was  the  novel  he  had  been  trying  to  read, 
tipped  on  to  the  floor;  the  remains  of  his  cheese  and  fruit 
lunch  not  cleared  away;  a  pair  of  brown  shoes  which  he 
had  been  going  to  shine  up.  The  big  black  beams  across 
the  low  ceiling  and  around  the  big  old  fireplace  rescued 
from  Victorian  enclosure  and  brown  varnish,  the  copper 
fire-dogs  and  pewter  plates  and  jugs  and  bowls  he  had 
hardily  collected,  hoping  they  would  appeal  to  Clare,  all 
his  res  angusta  dorni,  welcomed  him  dimly.  He  felt 
suddenly  exhausted,  drank  half  a  tumbler  of  whisky  and 


292  OVER     THE     RIVER 

water,  ate  some  biscuits,  and  sank  into  his  long  wicker 
armchair.  Almost  at  once  he  fell  asleep,  and  awoke  in 
daylight.  He  woke  remembering  that  he  had  meant  to 
spend  the  night  in  action.  Level  sunlight  was  slanting  in 
at  the  window.  He  finished  the  water  in  the  jug,  and 
looked  at  his  watch.  Five  o'clock.  He  threw  open  the 
door.  Early  haze  was  bright  over  the  fields.  He  went  out 
past  the  mares'  boxes  and  their  meadows.  A  track,  sloping 
down  towards  the  river,  led  over  grass  broken  by  bushy 
scoops  and  green  banks  covered  with  hazel  and  alders. 
No  dew  had  fallen,  but  the  grass  and  every  shrub  smelled 
new. 

About  fifty  yards  from  the  river  he  threw  himself  down 
in  a  little  hollow.  Rabbits  and  bees  and  birds — nothing 
else  as  yet  awake.  He  lay  on  his  back  staring  at  the  grass 
and  the  bushes  and  the  early  sky,  blue  and  lightly  fleeced. 
Perhaps  because  he  could  see  so  little  from  that  hollow 
all  England  seemed  to  be  with  him.  A  wild  bee  close  to 
his  hand  was  digging  into  a  flower,  there  was  a  faint  scent, 
as  of  daisy-chains;  but  chiefly  it  was  the  quality  of  the 
grass — its  close  freshness,  its  true  greenness.  'Greatness 
and  dignity  and  peacel'  That  playl  Those  words  had  given 
him  a  choke.  Other  people  had  laughed,  Clare  had 
laughed.  "Sentimental!"  she  had  said.  "No  country  ever 
had,  or  will  have  'Greatness  and  dignity  and  peace.'  " 
Probably  not,  certainly  not — a  country,  even  one's  own, 
was  a  mish-mash  of  beauties  and  monstrosities,  a  vague 
generalisation  that  betrayed  dramatists  into  over-writing, 
journalists  into  blurb.  All  the  same,  you  couldn't  anywhere 
else  in  the  world  get  just  such  a  spot,  or  just  such  grass 
to  feel  and  see,  a  scent  that  was  wellnigh  none,  a  tender 
fleecy  sky,  tiny  flowers,  birds'  songs,  age  and  youth  at 
once!  Let  people  laugh — you  couldn't!  Leave  grass  like 
this!  He  remembered  the  thrill  he  had  felt  six  months  ago, 
seeing  again  English  grass!  Leave  his  job  before  it  had 
begun;  chuck  it  back  at  Muskham,  who  had  been  so  really 


OVER     THE     RIVER  293 

decent  to  himl  He  turned  over  on  to  his  face  and  laid  his 
cheek  to  that  grass.  There  he  got  the  scent  better — not 
sweet,  not  bitter,  but  fresh,  intimate  and  delighting,  a 
scent  apprehended  from  his  earliest  childhood — the  scent 
of  England.  If  only  those  mares  would  come,  and  he 
could  get  at  it!  He  sat  up  again,  and  listened.  No  sound 
of  train  or  car  or  airplane,  no  human  sound,  no  sound  of 
any  four-footed  thing;  just  birds'  songs,  and  those  indis- 
tinguishable and  a  little  far — a  long  meandering  tune  wide 
above  the  grass.  Welll  No  use  making  a  songl  If  one 
couldn't  have  a  thing,  one  couldn't! 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE  moment  Dinny  had  left,  Adrian  made  the  not  un- 
common discovery  that  he  had  promised  what  would  need 
performance.  To  get  one  of  His  Majesty's  Counsel  to 
commit  himself — how?  Too  pointed  to  go  to  himl 
Impossible  to  pump  a  guestl  Em,  if  he  prompted  her, 
would  ask  them  both  to  dinner,  especially  if  made  to 
understand  that  the  matter  concerned  Dinny;  but  even 

then ?  He  waited  to  consult  Diana,  and,  after  dining, 

went  round  to  Mount  Street.  He  found  them  playing 
piquet. 

"Four  kings,"  said  Lady  Mont.  "So  old-fashioned — 
Lawrence  and  I  and  Mussolini.  Have  you  come  for  some- 
thing, Adrian?" 

"Naturally,  Em.  I  want  you  to  ask  Eustace  Dornford 
to  dinner,  and  me  to  meet  him." 

"That'll  be  Dinny.  I  can't  get  Lawrence  to  be 
chivalrous;  when  I  have  four  kings  he  always  has  four  aces. 
When?" 

"The  sooner  the  better." 

"Ring,  dear." 

Adrian  rang. 

"Blore,  call  up  Mr.  Dornford  and  ask  him  to  dinner — 
black  tie." 

"When,  my  lady?" 

"The  first  evenin*  not  in  my  book.  Like  dentists,"  she 
added,  as  Blore  withdrew.  "Tell  me  about  Dinny.  She 
hasn't  been  near  us  since  the  case." 

"The  case,"  repeated  Sir  Lawrence,  "went  much  as  one 
expected,  didn't  you  think,  Adrian?  Any  repercussions?" 

"Someone  has  settled  the  costs,  and  Dinny  suspects 
Dornford." 

294 


OVERTHERIVER  295 

Sir  Lawrence  laid  down  his  cards.   "Bit  too  like  a  bid 

for  her,  thatl" 

"Oh,  he  won't  admit  it,  but  she  wants  me  to  find  out." 
"If  he  won't  admit  it,  why  should  he  do  it?" 
"Knights,"  murmured  Lady  Mont,  "wearin'  a  glove, 

and  gettin'  killed,  and  nobody  knowin'  whose  glove.  Yes, 

Blore?" 

"Mr.  Dornford  will  be  happy  to  dine  on  Monday,  my 

lady." 

"Put  him  in  my  book,  then,  and  Mr.  Adrian." 

"Go  away  with  him  after  dinner,  Adrian,"  said  Sir 

Lawrence,  "and  do  it  then — not  so  pointed;  and,  Em,  not 

a  hint,  not  even  a  sigh  or  a  groan." 

"He's  a  nice  creature,"  said  Lady  Mont,  "so  pale- 
brown  .  .  ." 

With  the  'nice  creature  so  pale-brown*  Adrian  walked 
away  the  following  Monday  night.  Their  directions  were 
more  or  less  the  same,  since  Dornford  was  not  yet  in  his 
new  house.  To  Adrian's  relief,  his  companion  seemed  as 
glad  of  the  opportunity  as  himself,  for  he  began  at  once 
to  talk  of  Dinny. 

"Am  I  right  in  thinking  something's  happened  to  Dinny 
lately — I  don't  mean  that  case — but  when  she  was  ill  and 
you  went  abroad  together?" 

"Yes.  The  man  I  told  you  of  that  she  was  in  love  with 
two  years  ago  was  drowned  out  in  Siam." 

"Ohl" 

Adrian  stole  a  look.  What  should  Dornford's  face 
express — concern,  relief,  hope,  sympathy?  It  only  wore  a 
little  frown. 

"There  was  a  question  I  wanted  to  ask  you,  Dornford. 
Someone  has  settled  the  costs  granted  against  young  Groom 
in  that  case."  The  eyebrows  were  raised  now,  but  the  face 
said  nothing.  "I  thought  you  might  have  known  who.  The 
lawyers  will  only  say  that  it  wasn't  the  other  side." 


296  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"I've  no  idea." 

'So!'  thought  Adrian.  'No  nearer,  except  that,  if  a  liar, 
he's  a  good  onel' 

"I  like  young  Groom,"  said  Dornford;  "he's  behaved 
decently,  and  had  hard  luck.  That'll  save  him  from 
bankruptcy." 

"Bit  mysterious,  though,"  murmured  Adrian. 

"It  is." 

'On  the  whole/  Adrian  thought,  'I  believe  he  did.  But 
what  a  poker  faceP  He  said,  however: 

"How  do  you  find  Clare  since  the  case?" 

"A  little  more  cynical.  She  expressed  her  views  on  my 
profession  rather  freely  when  we  were  riding  this 
morning." 

"Do  you  think  she'll  marry  young  Groom?" 

Dornford  shook  his  head. 

"I  doubt  it,  especially  if  what  you  say  about  those  costs 
is  true.  She  might  have  out  of  a  sense  of  obligation,  but 
otherwise  I  think  the  case  has  worked  against  his  chance. 
She's  no  real  feeling  for  him — at  least  that's  my  view." 

"Corven  disillusioned  her  thoroughly." 

"I've  certainly  seldom  seen  a  more  disillusioning  face 
than  his,"  murmured  Dornford.  "But  she  seems  to  me 
headed  for  quite  an  amusing  life  on  her  own.  She's  got 
pluck  and,  like  all  these  young  women  now,  she's  essentially 
independent." 

"Yes,  I  can't  see  Clare  being  domestic." 

Dornford  was  silent.  "Would  you  say  that  of  Dinny, 
too?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"Well,  I  can't  see  Clare  as  a  mother;  Dinny  I  can.  I 
can't  see  Dinny  here,  there  and  everywhere;  Clare  I 
can.  All  the  same — 'domestic'  of  Dinnyl  It's  not  the 
word." 

"Nol"  said  Dornford  fervently.  "I  don't  know  what  is. 
You  believe  very  much  in  her,  don't  you?" 

Adrian  nodded. 


OVER     THE     RIVER  297 

"Enormously." 

"It's  been  tremendous  for  me,"  said  Dornford,  very 
low,  "to  have  come  across  her;  but  I'm  afraid  so  far  it's 
been  nothing  to  her." 

"Much  to  allow  for,"  suggested  Adrian.  "  'Patience  is 
a  virtue,'  or  so  it  used  to  be  before  the  world  went  up  in 
that  blue  flame  and  never  came  down  again." 

"But  I'm  rising  forty." 

"Well,  Dinny's  rising  twenty-nine." 

"What  you  told  me  just  now  makes  a  difference,  or — 
doesn't  it?" 

"About  Siam?  I  think  it  does — a  great  difference." 

"Well,  thank  you." 

They  parted  with  a  firm  clasp,  and  Adrian  branched  off 
northwards.  He  walked  slowly,  thinking  of  the  balance- 
sheet  that  confronts  each  lover's  unlimited  liability.  No 
waterings  of  capital  nor  any  insurance  could  square  or 
guarantee  that  shifting  lifelong  document.  By  love  was 
man  flung  into  the  world;  with  love  was  he  in  business 
nearly  all  his  days,  making  debts  or  profit;  and  when  he 
died  was  by  the  results  of  love,  if  not  by  the  parish,  buried 
and  forgotten.  In  this  swarming  London  not  a  creature 
but  was  deeply  in  account  with  a  Force  so  whimsical, 
inexorable,  and  strong,  that  none,  man  or  woman,  in  their 
proper  senses  would  choose  to  do  business  with  it. 
'Good  match,'  'happy  marriage,'  'ideal  partnership,'  'life- 
long union,'  ledgered  against  'don't  get  on,'  'just  a  flare 
up,'  'tragic  state  of  things,'  'misfit'I  All  his  other  activities 
man  could  insure,  modify,  foresee,  provide  against  (save 
the  inconvenient  activity  of  death);  love  he  could  not.  It 
stepped  to  him  out  of  the  night,  into  the  night  returned. 
It  stayed,  it  fled.  On  one  side  or  the  other  of  the  balance 
sheet  it  scored  an  entry,  leaving  him  to  cast  up  and  wait 
for  the  next  entry.  It  mocked  dictators,  parliaments, 
judges,  bishops,  police,  and  even  good  intentions;  it  mad- 
dened with  joy  and  grief;  wantoned,  procreated,  thieved, 


298  OVER     THE     RIVER 

and  murdered;  was  devoted,  faithful,  fickle.  It  had  no 
shame,  and  owned  no  master;  built  homes  and  gutted 
them;  passed  by  on  the  other  side;  and  now  and  again  made 
of  two  hearts  one  heart  till  death.  To  think  of  London, 
Manchester,  Glasgow  without  love  appeared  to  Adrian, 
walking  up  the  Charing  Cross  Road,  to  be  easy;  and  yet 
without  love  not  one  of  these  passing  citizens  would  be 
sniffing  the  petrol  of  this  night  air,  not  one  grimy  brick 
would  have  been  laid  upon  brick,  not  one  bus  be  droning 
past,  no  street  musician  would  wail,  nor  lamp  light  up  the 
firmament.  A  somewhat  primary  concern!  And  he,  whose 
primary  concern  was  with  the  bones  of  ancient  men,  who 
but  for  love  would  have  had  no  bones  to  be  dug  up, 
classified  and  kept  under  glass,  thought  of  Dornford  and 
Dinny,  and  whether  they  would  'click*  .  .  . 

And  Dornford,  on  his  way  to  Harcourt  Buildings, 
thought  even  more  intensively  of  himself  and  her.  Rising 
forty!  This  overmastering  wish  of  his — for  its  fulfilment 
it  was  now  or  never  with  him!  If  he  were  not  to  become 
set  in  the  groove  of  a  'getter-on/  he  must  marry  and  have 
children.  Life  had  become  a  half-baked  thing  without 
Dinny  to  give  it  meaning  and  savour.  She  had  become — 
what  had  she  not  become?  And,  passing  through  the 
narrow  portals  of  Middle  Temple  Lane,  he  said  to  a 
learned  brother,  also  moving  towards  his  bed: 

"What's  going  to  win  the  Derby,  Stubbs?" 

"God  knows!"  said  his  learned  brother,  wondering  why 
he  had  played  that  last  trump  when  he  did,  instead  of  when 
he  didn't  .  .  . 

And  in  Mount  Street  Sir  Lawrence,  coming  into  her 
room  to  say  'Good-night/  found  his  wife  sitting  up  in  bed 
in  the  lace  cap  which  always  made  her  look  so  young,  and, 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  in  his  black  silk  dressing-gown, 
sat  down. 

"Well,  Em?" 

"Dinny  will  have  two  boys  and  a  girl." 


OVERTHERIVER  299 

"Deuce  she  will!  That's  counting  her  chickens  rather 
fast." 

"Somebody  must.   Give  me  a  nice  kiss." 

Sir  Lawrence  stooped  over  and  complied. 

"When  she  marries,"  said  Lady  Mont,  shutting  her 
eyes,  "she'll  only  be  half  there  for  a  long  time." 

"Better  half  there  at  the  beginning  than  not  at  all  at  the 
end.  But  what  makes  you  think  she'll  take  him?" 

"My  bones.  We  don't  like  being  left  out  when  it  comes 
to  the  point,  Lawrence." 

"Continuation  of  the  species.   H'm!" 

"If  he'd  get  into  a  scrape,  or  break  his  leg." 

"Better  give  him  a  hint." 

"His  liver's  sound." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"The  whites  of  his  eyes  are  blue.  Those  browny  men 
often  have  livers." 

Sir  Lawrence  stood  up. 

"My  trouble,"  he  said,  "is  to  see  Dinny  sufficiently 
interested  in  herself  again  to  get  married.  After  all,  it  is 
a  personal  activity." 

"Harridge's  for  beds,"  murmured  Lady  Mont. 

Sir  Lawrence's  eyebrow  rose.  Em  was  inexhaustible! 


CHAPTER  XXXVH 

SHE  whose  abstinence  from  interest  in  herself  was  interest- 
ing so  many  people,  received  three  letters  on  Wednesday 
morning.  That  which  she  opened  first  said: 

"DINNY  DARLING, — 

"I  tried  to  pay,  but  Tony  would  have  none  of  it,  and 
went  off  like  a  rocket;  so  I'm  a  wholly  unattached  female 
again.  If  you  hear  any  news  of  him,  let  me  have  it. 

"Dornford  gets  more  'interesting-looking*  every  day. 
We  only  talk  of  you,  and  he's  raising  my  salary  to  three 
hundred  as  compensation. 

"Love  to  you  and  all, 

"CLARE." 

That  which  she  opened  second  said: 

"My  DEAR  DINNY, — 

"I'm  going  to  stick  it  here.  The  mares  arrive  on 
Monday.  I  had  Muskham  down  yesterday,  and  he  was 
jolly  decent,  didn't  say  a  word  about  the  case.  I'm  trying 
to  take  up  birds.  There  is  one  thing  you  could  do  for  me 
if  you  would — find  out  who  paid  those  costs.  It's  badly 
on  my  mind. 

"Ever  so  many  thanks  for  always  being  so  nice  to  me. 

"Yours  ever, 

"TONY  CROOM." 

That  which  she  read  last  said: 

"DINNY,  MY  DEAR, — 

"Nothing   doing.     He   either   didn't,    or   else   played 
300 


OVERTHERIVER  JOI 

'possum,'  but  if  so  it  was  very  good  'possum.'  All  the 
same,  I  wouldn't  put  it  past  him  that  it  was  'possum.'  If 
you  really  set  store  by  knowing,  I  think  I  should  ask  him 
point-blank.  I  don't  believe  he  would  tell  you  a  lie,  even 
*a  little  one.'  As  you  know,  I  like  him.  In  my  avuncular 
opinion  he  is  still  on  the  gold  standard. 

"Your  ever  devoted 

"ADRIAN." 

So!  She  felt  a  vague  irritation.  And  this  feeling,  which 
she  had  thought  momentary,  she  found  to  be  recurrent. 
Her  state  of  mind,  indeed,  like  the  weather,  turned  cold 
again  and  torpid.  She  wrote  to  Clare  what  Tony  Groom 
had  written  of  himself,  and  that  he  had  not  mentioned  her. 
She  wrote  to  Tony  Groom,  and  neither  mentioned  Clare 
nor  answered  his  question  about  the  costs;  she  concen- 
trated on  birds — they  seemed  safe,  and  to  lead  nowhere. 
She  wrote  to  Adrian:  "I'm  feeling  I  ought  to  be  wound-up, 
only  there'd  be  no  dividend  for  the  shareholders.  It's  very 
cold  and  dull,  my  consolation  is  that  little  'Cuffs'  is  begin- 
ning to  'sit  up  and  take  real  notice'  of  me." 

And  then,  as  if  by  arrangement  with  the  clerk  of  the 
course  at  Ascot,  the  weather  changed  to  'set  warm';  and, 
suddenly,  she  wrote  to  Dornford.  She  wrote  on  pigs, 
their  breeds  and  sties,  the  Government  and  the  farmers. 
She  ended  with  these  words: 

"We  are  all  very  worried  by  not  knowing  who  has  settled 
the  costs  in  my  sister's  case.  It  is  so  disquieting  to  be  under 
an  obligation  to  an  unknown  person.  Could  you  by  any 
means  find  out  for  us?"  She  debated  some  time  how  to 
sign  herself  in  this  her  first  letter  to  him,  and  finally  wrote 
"Yours  always,  Dinny  CharwelL" 

His  answer  came  very  quickly: 

"MY   DEAR   DlNNT, 

"I  was  delighted  to  get  a  letter  from  you.   To  answer 


302  OVER     THE     RIVER 

your  last  question  first.  I  will  do  my  best  to  get  the  lawyers 
to  'come  clean/  but  if  they  won't  tell  you,  I  can't  imagine 
their  telling  me.  Still,  I  can  try.  Though  I  fancy  that  if 
your  sister  or  young  Groom  insisted  they'd  have  to  tell. 
Now  about  pigs" — there  followed  certain  information, 
and  a  lamentation  that  agriculture  was  still  not  being 
properly  tackled.  "If  only  they  would  realise  that  all  the 
needed  pigs,  poultry,  and  potatoes,  nearly  all  the  vegetables, 
much  of  the  fruits,  and  much  more  than  the  present  dairy 
produce,  can  really  be  produced  at  home,  and  by  a 
graduated  prohibition  of  foreign  produce  encourage,  and 
indeed  force,  our  home  growers  to  supply  the  home 
market,  we  should,  within  ten  years,  have  a  living  and 
profitable  native  agriculture  once  more,  no  rise  to  speak 
of  in  the  cost  of  living,  and  a  huge  saving  in  our  imports 
bill.  You  see  how  new  I  am  to  politics  1  Wheat  and  meat 
are  the  red  herrings  across  the  trail.  Wheat  and  meat  from 
the  Dominions,  and  the  rest  (bar  hot  climate  fruits  and 
vegetables)  home-grown,  is  my  motto.  I  hope  your  father 
agrees.  Clare  is  becoming  restive,  and  I'm  wondering  if 
she  wouldn't  be  happier  in  a  more  active  job  than  this. 
If  I  can  come  across  a  good  one,  I  shall  advise  her  to  take 
it.  Would  you  ask  your  mother  whether  I  should  be  in 
the  way  if  I  came  down  for  the  last  week-end  this  month? 
She  was  good  enough  to  tell  me  to  let  her  know  any  time 
I  was  coming  to  the  constituency.  I  was  again  at  Cavalcade 
the  other  night.  It  wears  well,  but  I  missed  you.  I  can't 
even  begin  to  tell  you  how  I  missed  you. 

"Your  ever  faithful 

"EUSTACE  DORNFORD." 

Missed  her  I  After  the  faint  warmth  those  wistful  words 
aroused,  she  thought  almost  at  once  of  Clare.  Restivel 
Who  would  be  otherwise  in  her  anomalous  position?  She 
had  not  been  down  at  Condaford  since  the  case.  And  that 
seemed  to  Dinny  very  natural.  However  one  might  say 


OVERTHERIVER  303 

it  didn't  matter  what  people  thought,  it  did,  especially 
in  a  place  where  one  had  grown  up,  and  belonged,  as  it 
were,  to  the  blood  royal  of  the  neighbourhood.  And  Dinny 
thought,  unhappily:  'I  don't  know  what  I  want  for  her — 
and  that's  lucky,  because  one  day  she'll  see  exactly  what 
she  wants  for  herself.'  How  nice  to  see  exactly  what  one 
wanted  for  oneself  I  She  read  Dornford's  letter  again,  and 
suddenly  faced  her  own  feelings  for  the  first  time.  Was 
she  or  was  she  not  ever  going  to  marry?  If  so,  she  would 
as  soon  marry  Eustace  Dornford  as  anyone — she  liked, 
admired,  could  talk  to  him.  But  her — past!  How  funny  it 
soundedl  Her  'past/  strangled  almost  from  birth,  yet  the 
deepest  thing  she  would  ever  know!  "One  of  these  days 
you'll  have  to  go  down  into  the  battle  again."  Unpleasant 
to  be  thought  a  shirker  by  one's  own  mother!  But  it 
wasn't  shirking!  Spots  of  colour  rose  in  her  cheeks.  It 
was  something  no  one  would  understand — a  horror  of 
being  unfaithful  to  him  to  whom  she  had  belonged  in  soul 
if  not  in  body.  Of  being  unfaithful  to  that  utter  surrender, 
which  she  knew  could  never  be  repeated. 

'I  am  not  in  love  with  Eustace,'  she  thought;  'he  knows 
it,  he  knows  I  can't  even  pretend  it.  If  he  wants  me  on 
those  terms,  what  is  it  fair  for  me — what  is  it  possible 
for  me  to  do?'  She  went  out  into  the  old  yew-hedged  rose 
garden,  where  the  first  burst  of  roses  had  begun,  and 
wandered  round,  smelling  at  this  and  that,  followed  half- 
heartedly by  the  spaniel  Foch,  who  had  no  feeling  for 
flowers. 

'Whatever  I  do,'  she  thought,  'I  ought  to  do  now.  I 
can't  keep  him  on  tenterhooks.' 

She  stood  by  the  sundial,  where  the  shadow  was  an  hour 
behind  its  time,  and  looked  into  the  eye  of  the  sun  over  the 
fruit  trees  beyond  the  yew  hedges.  If  she  married  him, 
there  would  be  children — without  them  it  would  not  be 
possible.  She  saw  frankly — or  thought  she  did — where 
she  stood  in  the  matter  of  sex.  What  she  could  not  see 


304  OVER     THE     RIVER 

was  how  it  would  all  turn  for  herself  and  for  him  in  the 
recesses  of  the  spirit.  Restless,  she  wandered  from  rose- 
bush to  rose-bush,  extinguishing  the  few  greenfly  between 
her  gloved  fingers.  And,  in  a  corner,  with  a  sort  of  despair, 
the  spaniel  Foch  sat  down  unnoticed  and  ate  a  quantity 
of  coarse  grass. 

She  wrote  to  Dornford  the  same  evening.  Her  mother 
would  be  delighted  if  he  would  come  for  that  week-end. 
Her  father  quite  agreed  with  his  views  on  agriculture,  but 
was  not  sure  that  anyone  else  did,  except  Michael,  who, 
after  listening  to  him  carefully  one  evening  in  London, 
had  said:  "Yes.  What's  wanted  is  a  lead,  and  where's  it 
coming  from?"  She  hoped  that  when  he  came  down  he 
would  be  able  to  tell  her  about  those  costs.  It  must  have 
been  thrilling  to  see  Cavalcade  again.  Did  he  know  a  flower 
called  meconopsis,  if  that  was  the  way  to  spell  it,  a  sort 
of  poppy  of  a  most  lovely  colour?  It  came  from  the 
Himalayas,  and  so  would  be  suitable  for  Campden  Hill, 
which  she  believed  had  much  the  same  climate.  If  he  could 
induce  Clare  to  come  down  it  would  rejoice  the  hearts  of 
the  aborigines.  This  time  she  signed  herself  'always  yours/ 
a  distinction  too  subtle  to  explain  even  to  herself. 
Telling  her  mother  that  he  was  coming,  she  added: 
"I'll  try  and  get  Clare;  and  don't  you  think,  mother, 
that  we  ought  to  ask  Michael  and  Fleur?  They  were  very 
sweet  to  put  us  up  so  long." 
Lady  Charwell  sighed. 

"One  gets  into  a  way  of  just  going  on.   But  do,  dear." 
"They'll  talk  tennis,  and  that'll  be  so  nice  and  useful." 
Lady  Charwell  looked  at  her  daughter,  in  whose  voice 
something  recalled  the  Dinny  of  two  years  back. 

When  Dinny  knew  that  Clare  was  coming,  as  well  as 
Michael  and  Fleur,  she  debated  whether  to  tell  Tony 
Croom.  In  the  end  she  decided  not  to,  sorrowfully,  for 
she  had  for  him  the  fellow  feeling  of  one  who  had  been 
through  the  same  mill. 


OVERTHERIVER  305 

The  camouflage  above  her  father's  and  mother's  feelings 
touched  her.  Dornford — high  time,  of  course,  he  was 
down  in  the  constituency  againl  Pity  he  hadn't  a  place 
of  his  own — didn't  do  to  get  out  of  touch  with  the  electorsl 
Presumably  he'd  come  by  car,  and  bring  Clare;  or  Michael 
and  Fleur  could  call  for  herl  By  such  remarks  they  hid 
their  nervousness  about  Clare  and  about  herself. 

She  had  just  put  the  last  flower  in  the  last  bedroom  when 
the  first  car  slid  up  the  driveway;  and  she  came  down  the 
stairs  to  see  Dornford  standing  in  the  hall. 

"This  place  has  a  soul,  Dinny.  It  may  be  the  fantails 
on  the  stone  roof,  or  perhaps  the  deep  way  it's  settled  in, 
but  you  catch  it  at  once." 

She  left  her  hand  in  his  longer  than  she  had  meant  to. 

"It's  being  so  overgrown.  There's  the  smell,  too— old 
hay  and  flowering  verbena,  and  perhaps  the  mullions  being 
crumbled." 

"You  look  well,  Dinny." 

"I  am,  thank  you.  You  haven't  had  time  for  Wimbledon, 
I  suppose?" 

"No.  But  Clare's  been  going — she's  coming  straight 
from  it  with  the  young  Monts." 

"What  did  you  mean  in  your  letter  by  'restive'?" 

"Well,  as  I  see  Clare,  she  must  be  in  the  picture,  and 
just  now  she  isn't." 

Dinny  nodded. 

"Has  she  said  anything  to  you  about  Tony  Croom?" 

"Yes.  She  laughed  and  said  he'd  dropped  her  like  a  hot 
potato." 

Dinny  took  his  hat  and  hung  it  up. 

"About  those  costs?"  she  said,  without  turning. 

"Well,  I  went  to  see  Forsyte  specially,  but  I  got  nothing 
out  of  him." 

"OhI  Would  you  like  a  wash,  or  would  you  rather  go 
straight  up?  Dinner's  at  quarter-past  eight.  It's  half-past 


306  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"Straight  up,  if  I  may." 

"You're  in  a  different  room;  I'll  show  you." 

She  preceded  him  to  the  foot  of  the  little  stairway 
leading  to  the  priest's  room. 

"That's  your  bathroom.   Up  here,  now." 

"The  priest's  room?" 

"Yes.  There's  no  ghost."  She  crossed  to  the  window. 
"See!  He  was  fed  here  at  night  from  the  roof.  Do  you 
like  the  view?  Better  in  the  spring  when  the  blossom's 
out,  of  course." 

"Lovely I"  He  stood  beside  her  at  the  window,  and  she 
could  see  his  hands  clenched  so  hard  on  the  stone  sill  that 
the  knuckles  showed  white.  A  bitter  wind  swept  through 
her  being.  Here  she  had  dreamed  of  standing  with  Wilfrid 
beside  her.  She  leaned  against  the  side  of  the  embrasured 
window  and  closed  her  eyes.  When  she  opened  them  he 
was  facing  her,  she  could  see  his  lips  trembling,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him,  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  face.  She  moved 
across  to  the  door. 

"I'll  have  your  things  brought  up  and  unpacked  at  once. 
Would  you  answer  me  one  question:  Did  you  pay  those 
costs  yourself?" 

He  gave  a  start  and  a  little  laugh,  as  if  he  had  been 
suddenly  switched  from  tragedy  to  comedy. 

"I?   No.   Never  even  thought  of  it." 

"Oh!"  said  Dinny  again.  "You've  lots  of  time."  And 
she  went  down  the  little  stairway. 

Did  she  believe  him?  Whether  she  believed  him  or  not, 
did  it  make  any  difference?  The  question  would  be  asked 
and  must  be  answered.  'One  more  river — one  more  river 
to  cross!'  And  at  the  sound  of  the  second  car  she  went 
hurrying  down  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XXXVm 

DURING  that  strange  week-end,  with  only  Michael  and 
Fleur  at  ease,  Dinny  received  one  piece  of  enlightenment 
as  she  strolled  in  the  garden. 

"Em  tells  me,"  said  Fleur,  "you're  all  worked  up  about 
those  costs — she  says  you  think  Dornford  paid  them,  and 
that  it's  giving  you  a  feeling  of  obligation?" 

"Oh?  Well,  it  is  worrying,  like  finding  you  owe  nothing 
to  your  dressmaker." 

"My  dear,"  said  Fleur,  "for  your  strictly  private  ear,  I 
paid  them.  Roger  came  to  dinner  and  made  a  song  about 
hating  to  send  in  such  a  bill  to  people  who  had  no  money  to 
spare,  so  I  talked  it  over  with  Michael  and  sent  Roger  a 
cheque.  My  Dad  made  his  money  out  of  the  Law,  so  it 
seemed  appropriate." 

Dinny  stared. 

"You  see,"  continued  Fleur,  taking  her  arm,  "thanks  to 
the  Government  converting  that  loan,  all  my  beautiful  gilt- 
edgeds  have  gone  up  about  ten  points,  so  that,  even  after 
paying  that  nine  hundred-odd,  I'm  still  about  fifteen 
thousand  richer  than  I  was,  and  they're  still  going  up.  I've 
only  told  you,  in  confidence,  because  I  was  afraid  it  would 
weigh  with  you  in  making  up  your  mind  about  Dornford. 
Tell  me:  Would  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Dinny  dully;  and  she  didn't. 

"Michael  says  Dornford's  the  freshest  egg  he's  come 
across  for  a  long  time;  and  Michael  is  very  sensitive  to 
freshness  in  eggs.  You  know,"  said  Fleur,  stopping 
suddenly,  and  letting  go  her  arm,  "you  puzzle  me,  Dinny. 
Everybody  can  see  what  you're  cut  out  for — wife  and 
mother.  Of  course,  I  know  what  you've  been  through,  but 
the  past  buries  its  dead.  It  is  so,  I've  been  through  it,  too. 

307  u 


308  OVER     THE     RIVER 

It's  the  present  and  the  future  that  matter,  and  we're  the 
present,  and  our  children  are  the  future.  And  you  specially 
— because  you're  so  stuck  on  tradition  and  continuity  and 
that — ought  to  carry  on.  Anybody  who  lets  a  memory 
spoil  her  life — forgive  me,  old  thing,  but  it's  rather 
obviously  now  or  never  with  you.  And  to  think  of  you 
with  'never'  chalked  against  you  is  too  bleak.  I've  precious 
little  moral  sense,"  continued  Fleur,  sniffing  at  a  rose,  "but 
I've  a  lot  of  the  commoner  article,  and  I  simply  hate  to  see 
waste." 

Dinny,  touched  by  the  look  in  those  hazel  eyes  with  the 
extraordinarily  clear  whites,  stood  very  still,  and  said 
quietly: 

"If  I  were  a  Catholic,  like  him,  I  shouldn't  have  any 
doubt." 

"The  cloister?"  said  Fleur  sharply:  "No!  My  mother's 

a  Catholic,  but Nol  Anyway,  you're  not  a  Catholic. 

No,  my  dear — the  hearth.  That  title  was  wrong,  you 
know.  It  can't  be  both." 

Dinny  smiled.  "I  do  apologise  for  worrying  people  so. 
Do  you  like  these  Angele  Pernets?" 

She  had  no  talk  with  Dornford  all  that  Saturday,  pre- 
occupied as  he  was  with  the  convictions  of  the  neighbour- 
ing farmers.  But  after  dinner,  when  she  was  scoring  for  the 
four  who  were  playing  Russian  pool,  he  came  and  stood 
beside  her. 

"Hilarity  in  the  home,"  she  said,  adding  nine  presented 
by  Fleur  to  the  side  on  which  she  was  not  playing:  "How 
did  you  find  the  farmers?" 

"Confident." 

"Con ?" 

"That  whatever's  done  will  make  things  worse." 

"Oh!  Ah!  They're  so  used  to  that,  you  see." 

"And  what  havej<?#  been  doing  all  day,  Dinny?" 

"Picked  flowers,  walked  with  Fleur,  played  with 
'Cuffs,'  and  dallied  with  the  pigs.  .  .  .  Five  on  to  your 


OVER     THE     RIVER  •          309 

side,  Michael,  and  seven  on  to  the  other.  This  is  a  very 
Christian  game — doing  unto  others  as  you  would  they 
should  do  unto  you." 

"Russian  pool!"  murmured  Dornford:  "Curious  name 
nowadays  for  anything  so  infected  with  religion." 

"Apropos,  if  you  want  to  go  to  Mass  to-morrow,  there's 
Oxford." 

"You  wouldn't  come  with  me?" 

"Ohl  Yes.  I  love  Oxford,  and  I've  only  once  heard  a 
Mass.  It  takes  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  drive 
over." 

His  look  at  her  was  much  as  the  spaniel  Foch  gave  when 
she  returned  to  him  after  absence. 

"Quarter  past  nine,  then,  in  my  car  .  .  ." 

When  next  day  they  were  seated  side  by  side,  he  said: 

"Shall  we  slide  the  roof  back?" 

"Please." 

"Dinny,  this  is  like  a  dream." 

"I  wish  my  dreams  had  such  a  smooth  action." 

"Do  you  dream  much?" 

"Yes." 

"Nice  or  nasty?" 

"Oh!  like  all  dreams,  a  little  of  both." 

"Any  recurrent  ones?" 

"One.  A  river  I  can't  cross." 

"Ah!  like  an  examination  one  can't  pass.  Dreams  are 
ruthlessly  revealing.  If  you  could  cross  that  river  in  your 
dream,  would  you  be  happier?" 

"I  don't  know." 

There  was  a  silence,  till  he  said: 

"This  car  is  a  new  make.  You  don't  have  to  change 
gears  in  the  old  way.  But  you  don't  care  for  driving,  do 
you?" 

"I'm  an  idiot  at  it." 

"You're  not  modern,  you  see,  Dinny." 


310  OVER     THE     RIVER 

"No.  I'm  much  less  efficient  than  most  people." 

"In  your  own  way  I  don't  know  anybody  so  efficient." 

"You  mean  I  can  arrange  flowers." 

"And  see  a  joke;  and  be — a  darling." 

It  seemed  to  Dinny  the  last  thing  she  had  been  able  to 
be  for  nearly  two  years,  so  she  merely  replied: 

"What  was  your  college  at  Oxford?" 

"Oriel." 

And  the  conversation  lapsed. 

Some  hay  was  stacked  and  some  still  lying  out,  and  the 
midsummer  air  was  full  of  its  scent. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Dornford  suddenly,  "I  don't  want  to 
go  to  Mass.  I  don't  get  so  many  chances  to  be  with  you, 
Dinny.  Let's  make  for  Clifton  and  sit  in  a  boat." 

"Well,  it  is  rather  lovely  for  indoors." 

They  turned  off  to  the  left,  and,  passing  through 
Dorchester,  came  to  the  river  by  the  bend  and  bluffs  at 
Clifton.  Leaving  the  car,  they  procured  a  punt  and  after 
drifting  a  little,  moored  it  to  the  bank. 

"This,"  said  Dinny,  "is  a  nice  exhibition  of  high 
purpose,  I  don't  think.  'Something  done'  isn't  always 
what  was  attempted,  is  it?" 

"No,  but  it's  often  better." 

"I  wish  we'd  brought  Foch;  he  likes  any  kind  of  vehicle 
where  he  can  sit  on  one's  feet  and  get  a  nice  sick  feeling." 

But  in  that  hour  and  more  on  the  river  they  hardly 
talked  at  all.  It  was  as  if  he  understood — which,  as  a  fact,  he 
did  not — how,  in  that  drowsing  summer  silence,  on  water 
half  in  sunlight,  half  in  shade,  she  was  coming  closer  to  him 
than  ever  before.  There  was,  indeed,  to  Dinny  something 
really  restful  and  reassuring  in  those  long  lazing  minutes, 
when  she  need  not  talk,  but  just  take  summer  in  at  every 
pore — its  scent,  and  hum,  and  quiet  movement,  the 
careless  and  untroubled  hovering  of  its  green  spirit,  the 
vague  sway  of  the  bulrushes,  and  the  clucking  of  the 
water,  and  always  that  distant  calling  of  the  wood  pigeons 


OVER     THE     RIVER  3!! 

from  far  trees.  She  was  finding,  indeed,  the  truth  of 
Clare's  words,  that  he  could  'let  one's  mouth  alone.' 

By  the  time  they  were  back  at  the  Grange,  it  had  been 
one  of  the  most  silent  and  satisfactory  mornings  she  had 
ever  known.  But  between  his:  "Thank  you,  Dinny,  a 
heavenly  time,"  and  his  real  feelings,  she  could  tell  from 
his  eyes  there  was  a  great  gap  fixed.  It  was  unnatural  the 
way  he  kept  his  feelings  in  checkl  And,  as  became  a 
woman,  compassion  soon  changed  in  her  to  irritation. 
Anything  better  than  this  eternal  repression,  perfect 
consideration,  patience,  and  long  waiting!  And  all  that 
afternoon  she  saw  as  little  of  him  as  she  had  seen  much  all 
the  morning.  His  eyes,  fixed  on  her  with  longing  and  a  sort 
of  reproach,  became  an  added  source  of  vexation,  and  she 
carefully  refrained  from  seeming  to  notice  them.  "Verra 
pavairse,"  her  old  Scottish  nurse  would  have  said. 

Bidding  him  'Good  night'  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  she 
felt  a  keen  pleasure  at  the  dashed  look  on  his  face,  and  an 
equally  keen  sense  that  she  was  'a  beast.'  She  entered  her 
bedroom  in  a  curious  turmoil,  at  odds  with  herself,  and 
him,  and  all  the  world. 

"Damnl"  she  muttered,  feeling  for  the  switch. 

A  low  laugh  startled  her.  Clare,  in  her  pyjamas,  was 
perched  on  the  window-seat,  smoking  a  cigarette. 

"Don't  turn  up,  Dinny;  come  and  sit  here  with  me,  and 
let's  puff  out  of  the  window  together." 

Three  wide-opened  casements  laid  bare  the  night  under 
a  teazle-blue  heaven  trembling  with  stars.  Dinny,  looking 
out  at  it,  said: 

"Where  have  you  been  ever  since  lunch?  I  didn't  even 
know  you  were  back." 

"Have  a  gasper?  You  seem  to  want  soothing." 

Dinny  expelled  a  puff  of  smoke. 

"I  do.  I'm  sick  of  myself." 

"So  was  I,"  murmured  Clare,  "but  I  feel  better." 

"What  have  you  been  doing,  then?" 


312  OVER     THE     RIVER 

Again  Ckre  laughed,  and  in  the  sound  was  something 
that  made  Dinny  say: 

"Seeing  Tony  Groom?"     . 

Clare  leaned  back  and  her  throat  showed  pale. 

"Yes,  my  dear.  The  Ford  and  I  went  over.  Dinny,  we've 
justified  the  law.  Tony  no  longer  looks  like  a  bereaved 
orphan." 

"Oh!"  said  Dinny,  and  again:  "Oh!" 

Her  sister's  voice,  warm  and  languid,  and  satisfied,  made 
her  cheeks  go  hot  and  her  breath  come  quickly. 

"Yes,  I  prefer  him  as  a  lover  to  a  friend.  How  sane  is  the 
law — it  knew  what  we  ought  to  have  been!  And  I  like  his 
converted  cottages.  Only  there's  a  fireplace  upstairs  that 
still  wants  opening  up." 

"Are  you  going  to  get  married,  then?" 

"My  dear,  how  can  we?  No,  we  shall  live  in  sin.  Later, 
I  suppose,  we  shall  see.  I  think  this  'nisi'  period  is  very 
thoughtful.  Tony  will  come  up  in  the  middle  of  the  week, 
and  I  shall  go  down  at  the  week-end.  And  all  so  legal." 

Dinny  laughed.  Clare  sat  up,  suddenly,  clasping  her 
knees. 

"I'm  happier  than  I've  been  for  ever  so  long.  It  doesn't 
do  to  make  other  people  wretched.  Also,  women  ought  to 
be  loved,  it  suits  them  somehow.  Men,  too." 

Dinny  leaned  out  of  the  window,  and  the  night  slowly 
cooled  her  cheeks.  Beautiful  and  deep  it  was,  out  there,  the 
shapes  unstirring,  dark  and  as  if  brooding.  Through  the 
tense  stillness  came  a  far  drone,  swelling  to  the  rightful 
sound  of  a  passing  car,  and,  between  the  trees,  she  could 
see  its  travelling  light  burnish  up  the  hedgerows  for  flying 
moments,  and  die  beyond  the  angle  of  vision.  Then  the 
drone  grew  faint  and  fainter,  and  stillness  recommenced. 
A  moth  flew  by,  and  a  little  white  feather  from  a  fantail  on 
the  roof  floated  down,  turning  over  in  the  quiet  air.  She 
felt  Clare's  arm  come  round  her  waist. 

"Good-night,  old  thing!    Rub  noses." 


OVER     THE     RIVER  313 

Withdrawing  from  the  night,  Dinny  clasped  that  slim 
pyjamaed  body.  Their  cheeks  touched,  and  to  each  the 
warmth  of  the  other's  skin  was  moving — to  Clare  a  bless- 
ing, to  Dinny  an  infection,  as  though  the  lingered  glow 
from  many  kisses  was  passing  into  her. 

When  her  sister  had  gone,  she  moved  restlessly  up  and 
down  her  dark  room. 

"It  doesn't  do  to  make  people  wretchedl  .  .  .  Women 
ought  to  be  loved.  .  .  .  Men,  too."  Quite  a  minor 
prophet!  Converted  by  lightning,  like  Paul  on  his  way  to 
wherever  it  was.  Up  and  down,  up  and  down,  till  at  last, 
quite  tired,  she  turned  on  the  light,  threw  off  her  clothes, 
and  sat  down  in  a  wrapper  to  brush  her  hair.  Brushing 
away  at  it,  she  stared  at  her  image  in  the  glass  with  fascina- 
tion, as  if  she  had  not  seen  herself  for  a  long  time.  The 
fever  with  which  she  had  been  infected  seemed  still  in  her 
cheeks  and  eyes  and  hair,  she  looked  unnaturally  vivid  to 
herself;  or  was  it  that  the  sun,  while  she  and  Dornford  were 
sitting  in  that  punt,  had  left  her  with  this  hot  feeling  in  the 
veins?  She  finished  brushing,  shook  back  her  hair,  and  got 
into  bed.  She  had  left  the  casements  open,  the  curtains 
undrawn;  and  the  starry  night  confronted  her  lying  on  her 
back  in  the  darkness  of  her  narrow  room.  The  hall  clock 
struck  midnight  faintly — only  three  hours  or  so  before  it 
would  be  light!  She  thought  of  Clare  sunk  in  beauty  sleep 
close  by.  She  thought  of  Tony  Croom,  deep-drugged  with 
happiness,  in  his  converted  cottages,  and  the  old  tag  from 
The  Beggars9  Opera  ran  in  her  mind:  'With  blisses  her 
kisses  dissolve  us  in  pleasure  and  soft  repose.'  But  she! 
She  could  not  sleep!  She  felt,  as  sometimes  when  a  little 
girl,  that  she  must  roam  about,  explore  the  strangeness  of 
the  dead  of  night,  sit  on  the  stairs,  peep  into  rooms,  curl  up 
in  some  armchair.  And,  getting  up,  she  put  on  her  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers  and  stole  out.  She  sat  on  the  top  stair, 
clasping  her  knees  and  listening.  Not  a  sound  in  the  old 
dark  house,  except  a  little  scraping  noise,  where  some 


314  OVER     THE     RIVER 

mouse  was  at  work.  She  rose,  clutched  the  banister,  and 
crept  downstairs.  The  hall  smelled  musty  already,  too 
much  old  wood  and  furniture  to  stand  enclosure  by  the 
night.  She  groped  across  to  the  drawing-room  door  and 
opened  it.  Here  flowers  and  last  year's  pot-pourri  and 
stale  cigarette  smoke  scented  the  air  with  a  heavy  reek. 
She  made  her  way  to  one  of  the  French  windows,  drew  the 
curtains  back,  and  opened  it.  She  stood  there  a  minute 
taking  deep  breaths.  Very  dark,  very  still,  very  warm.  By 
starlight  she  could  just  see  the  sheen  on  the  magnolia 
leaves.  Leaving  the  window  open,  she  sought  her  favourite 
old  armchair,  and  curled  up  in  it  with  her  feet  tucked  under 
her.  There,  hugging  herself,  she  tried  to  recapture  the 
feeling  that  she  was  a  child  again.  The  night  air  came  in, 
the  clock  ticked,  and  the  hot  feeling  in  her  veins  seemed  to 
cool  away  in  measure  with  its  rhythm.  She  shut  her  eyes 
fast,  and  the  sort  of  cosiness  she  used  to  feel  in  that  old 
chair,  as  if  she  were  all  clasped  and  protected,  stole  upon 
her;  but  still  she  did  not  sleep.  Behind  her  from  the  window 
with  the  rising  of  the  moon  a  presence  had  stolen  in,  a  sort 
of  fingering  uncanny  light,  slowly  lifting  each  familiar 
object  into  ghostly  semblance  of  itself.  It  was  as  if  the 
room  had  come  awake  to  keep  her  company;  and  the 
feeling  she  had  sometimes  had,  that  the  old  house  had  a 
life  of  its  own,  felt,  saw,  knew  its  spells  of  wakefulness  and 
of  slumber,  tingled  once  more  within  her.  Suddenly,  she 
heard  footsteps  on  the  terrace  and  sat  up  startled. 

Someone  said:  "Who  is  that?  Is  anyone  there?" 

A  figure  stood  in  the  open  window;  by  the  voice  she 
knew  that  it  was  Dornford,  and  said: 

"Only  me." 

"Only  youl" 

She  saw  him  come  in  and  stand  beside  the  chair,  looking 
down.  He  was  still  in  his  evening  clothes,  and,  with  his 
back  to  the  faint  light,  she  could  hardly  see  his  face  at  all. 

"Anything  the  matter,  Dinny?" 


OVER     THE     RIVER  315 

"Just  couldn't  sleep.   And  you?" 

"I've  been  finishing  a  bit  of  work  in  the  library.  I  went 
out  on  the  terrace  for  a  breath,  and  saw  this  window 
open." 

"Which  of  us  is  going  to  say:  'How  marvellous?" 

Neither  of  them  said  anything.  But  Dinny  unclasped 
herself  and  let  her  feet  seek  the  ground. 

Suddenly,  Dornford  put  his  hands  to  his  head  and  turned 
his  back  on  her. 

"Forgive  my  being  like  this,"  she  murmured,  "I 
naturally  didn't  expect " 

He  turned  round  again,  and  dropped  on  his  knees  beside 
her.  "Dinny,  it's  the  end  of  the  world,  unless " 

She  put  her  hands  on  his  hair  and  said  quietly:  " it's 

the  beginning." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 
ADRIAN  sat  writing  to  his  wife. 

"Condaford:    August  10. 
"MY  VERY  DEAR, — 

"I  promised  to  give  you  a  true  and  particular  account  of 
how  Dinny  went  off.  Look  in  The  Lantern  for  their 
conception  of  'the  bride  and  bridegroom  leaving  the 
church/  Fortunately,  the  lens  of  that  enquiring  organ 
caught  them  just  before  they  pushed  off — except  in  movies 
the  camera  simply  cannot  record  movement;  it  always  gets 
the  sole  of  one  foot  cocked  towards  the  eye,  flannelises  the 
knee  of  the  other  leg,  and  upsets  the  set  of  the  trousers. 
Dornford  looked  quite  good  value — in  this  style,  fourteen- 
and-six;  and  Dinny — bless  herl — without  the  'bride's 
smile/  almost  as  if  she  saw  the  joke.  Ever  since  the 
engagement,  I've  wondered  what  she's  really  feeling.  Love 
such  as  she  gave  Desert  it  certainly  is  not,  but  I  don't 
believe  there's  any  physical  reluctance.  When,  yesterday, 
I  said  to  her:  'In  good  heart?'  her  answer  was:  'No  half 
heart,  anyway.'  We  both  of  us  have  reason  to  know  that 
she  can  go  all  out  in  what  she  does  for  other  people.  But 
she's  really  doing  this  for  herself.  She'll  be  carrying  on — 
she'll  have  children — and  she'll  count.  That's  as  it  should 
be,  and  so  I  believe  she  feels.  If  she  hasn't  what  hopeful 
youth  calls  'a  crush  on'  Dornford,  she  admires  and  respects 
him,  and  I  think  quite  rightly.  Besides,  he  knows  from  me, 
if  not  from  her,  what  she's  capable  of,  and  won't  expect 
more  until  he  gets  it.  The  weather  held  up  all  right,  and 
the  church — wherein,  by  the  way,  your  special  corres- 
pondent was  baptized — in  the  word  of  Verdant  Green 
never  looked  'berrer/  The  congregation  was  perhaps  a 

316 


OVER     THE     RIVER  317 

trifle  Early  English,  though  it  seemed  to  me  you  could 
have  got  most  of  the  faces  at  Woolworth's. 

"At  the  top  of  the  nave,  in  the  more  holy  positions,  came 
our  own  gang,  County  and  would-be  County.  The  more  I 
looked  at  County  the  more  I  thought  how  merciful  that  the 
states  of  life  into  which  it  has  pleased  God  to  call  us  have 
prevented  the  Charwells  of  our  generation  from  looking 
County.  Even  Con  and  Liz,  who  have  to  stick  down  here 
all  the  time,  haven't  got  quite  the  hang  of  it.  Remarkable,  if 
you  think,  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  'County'  left;  but  I 
suppose  it'll  last  while  there's  'huntin'  and  shootin' '.  I 
remember,  as  a  boy,  out  hunting  (when  I  could  screw  a 
mount  out  of  our  stables  or  somebody  else's),  I  used  to  lurk 
out  of  reach  of  people  for  fear  of  having  to  talk  to  them, 
their  words  and  music  were  so  trying.  Better  to  be  human 
than  County  or  even  would-be  County.  I  must  say  that 
Clare,  after  all  her  jollification  in  the  courts,  carried  it  of! 
amazingly,  and  so  far  as  I  could  see,  nobody  had  the  nerve 
to  show  any  of  the  feelings  which,  as  a  fact,  at  this  time  of 
day,  they  probably  hadn't  got.  Then,  a  little  less  holy,  came 
the  village  in  force — Dinny's  a  great  favourite  with  them — 
quite  a  show  of  oldest  inhabitants.  Some  real  faces;  an  old 
chap  called  Downer,  in  a  Bath  chair,  all  'Whitechapel' 
whiskers  and  beard,  and  shrewd  remaining  brown  spaces. 
He  perfectly  remembered  Hilary  and  me  falling  off  a  hay- 
cart  we  oughtn't  to  have  been  on.  And  old  Mrs.  Tibwhite 
— a  sweet  old  witch  of  a  thing,  who  always  let  me  eat  her 
raspberries.  The  schoolchildren  had  a  special  holiday. 
Liz  tells  me  not  one  in  twenty  of  them  has  ever  seen 
London,  or  indeed  been  ten  miles  out  of  the  vilkge,  even 
now.  But  there's  a  real  difference  in  the  young  men  and 
maidens.  The  girls  have  most  excellent  legs  and  stockings 
and  quite  tasteful  dresses;  and  the  youths  good  flannel  suits 
and  collars  and  ties — all  done  by  the  motor  bike  and  the 
film.  Lots  of  flowers  in  the  church,  and  a  good  deal  of 
bell-ringing  and  blowy  organ-playing.  Hilary  did  the 


318  OVER     THE     RIVER 

swearing-in  with  his  usual  rapidity,  and  the  old  rector,  who 
held  the  sponge,  looked  blue  at  the  pace  he  went  and  the 
things  he  left  out.  Well,  you  want,  of  course,  to  hear  about 
those  dresses.  The  general  effect,  as  they  stood  in  the 
aisle,  was  what  you  might  call  delphinian.  Dinny,  even  in 
white,  has  that  look,  and,  consciously  or  not,  the  brides- 
maids were  togged  up  according;  and  what  with  Monica 
and  Joan  and  two  young  Dornford  nieces  being  slim  and 
tall,  they  really  looked  like  a  planting  of  blue  delphiniums, 
preceded  by  four  blue  tots,  sweet,  but  none  as  pretty  as 
Sheila.  Really,  that  chickenpox  was  very  perverse;  you  and 
your  two  were  terribly  missed,  and  Ronald  as  a  page  would 
just  have  topped  everything  up.  I  walked  back  to  the 
Grange  with  Lawrence  and  Em,  an  imposing  steel-grey 
presence  slightly  marred  where  'tears  had  got  mixed  with 
her  powder  sometimes/  In  fact,  I  had  to  stop  her  under  a 
stricken  tree  and  do  some  good  work  with  one  of  those  silk 
handkerchiefs  you  gave  me.  Lawrence  was  in  feather — 
thought  the  whole  show  the  least  gimcrack  thing  he  had 
seen  for  a  long  time,  and  had  now  more  hope  of  the  pound 
going  still  lower.  Em  had  been  to  see  the  house  on 
Campden  Hill;  she  predicted  that  Dinny  would  be  in  love 
with  Dornford  within  a  year,  which  started  another  tear,  so 
I  called  her  attention  to  the  tree  which  had  in  fact  been 
struck  by  lightning  while  she  and  I  and  Hilary  were 
standing  under  it.  'Yes/  she  said,  'you  were  squits — so 
providential;  and  the  butler  made  a  penholder  out  of  the 
wood;  it  wouldn't  hold  nibs,  so  I  gave  it  to  Con  for  school, 
and  he  cursed  me.  Lawrence,  I'm  old.'  Whereon  Lawrence 
took  her  hand,  and  they  walked  hand  in  hand  the  rest  of  the 
way. 

"The  reception  was  held  on  the  terrace  and  lawn; 
everybody  came,  schoolchildren  and  all,  a  quaint  mix-up, 
but  jolly,  it  seemed  to  me.  I  didn't  know  I  was  so  fond  of 
the  old  place.  However  much  one  may  believe  in  levelling- 
up  chances,  there's  something  about  old  places.  They  can't 


OVER     THE     RIVER  319 

be  re-created  if  they're  once  let  slip,  and  they  focus  landscape 
in  a  queer  kind  of  way.  Some  villages  and  landscapes  seem 
to  have  no  core — you  can't  explain  why,  but  they  feel 
hollow,  and  shallow  and  flat.  A  real  old  place  puts  heart 
into  a  neighbourhood.  If  the  people  who  live  in  it  are  not 
just  selfish  pigs,  it  means  a  lot  in  a  quiet  way  to  people  who 
have  no  actual  ownership  in  it.  The  Grange  is  a  sort  of 
anchor  to  this  neighbourhood.  I  doubt  if  you'd  find  a 
single  villager,  however  poor,  who  grudged  its  existence, 
or  wouldn't  feel  the  worse  for  its  ruination.  Generations 
of  love  and  trouble,  and  goodness  knows  not  too  much 
money,  have  been  spent  on  it,  and  the  result  is  something 
very  hand-made  and  special.  Everything's  changing,  and 
has  got  to  change,  no  doubt,  and  how  to  save  the  old  that's 
worth  saving,  whether  in  landscape,  houses,  manners, 
institutions,  or  human  types,  is  one  of  our  greatest  pro- 
blems, and  the  one  that  we  bother  least  about.  We  save  our 
works  of  art,  our  old  furniture,  we  have  our  cult — and  a 
strong  one — of  'antiques,'  and  not  even  the  most  go- 
ahead  modern  thought  objects  to  that.  Why  not  the  same 
throughout  our  social  life?  "The  old  order  changeth' — yes, 
but  we  ought  to  be  able  to  preserve  beauty  and  dignity, 
and  the  sense  of  service,  and  manners — things  that  have 
come  very  slowly,  and  can  be  made  to  vanish  very  fast  if  we 
aren't  set  on  preserving  them  somehow.  Human  nature 
being  what  it  is,  nothing  seems  to  me  more  futile  than  to 
level  to  the  ground  and  start  again.  The  old  order  had 
many  excrescences,  and  was  by  no  means  'all  werry 
capital,'  but,  now  that  the  housebreakers  are  in,  one  does 
see  that  you  can  smash  in  an  hour  what  has  taken  centuries 
to  produce;  and  that,  unless  you  can  see  your  way  pretty 
clearly  to  replace  what  admittedly  wasn't  perfect  with 
something  more  perfect,  you're  throwing  human  life  back 
instead  of  advancing  it.  The  thing  is  to  pick  on  what's 
worth  preserving,  though  I  don't  say  there's  very  much  that 
is.  Well,  that's  all  very  portentousl  To  come  back  to 


320  OVER     THE     RIVER 

Dinny — they're  going  to  spend  their  honeymoon  in 
Shropshire,  round  about  where  Dornford  comes  from. 
Then  they  come  back  here  for  a  bit,  then  settle  in  on 
Campden  Hill.  I  hope  this  weather  will  last  for  them. 
Honeymooning  in  wet  weather,  especially  when  one  is 
keener  on  the  other  than  the  other  is  on  the  one,  should  be 
very  trying.  Dinny's  'going  away*  frock,  you  may  like  to 
know,  was  blue,  and  suited  her  not  quite  down  to  the 
ground.  We  had  a  minute  together.  I  gave  her  your  love, 
and  she  sent  you  hers,  and  said:  'Well,  I'm  very  nearly 
over,  Uncle  dear.  Wish  me  luckl'  I  felt  like  piping  my 
eye.  Over  what?  Well,  anyway,  if  wishes  for  luck  will  help, 
she  goes  wreathed  with  them;  but  all  that  kissing  business 
is  hard  to  get  through.  Con  and  Liz  took  theirs  down  at 
the  car.  I  felt  rather  a  brute,  looking  at  their  faces  when 
she'd  gone.  They  went  away  in  Dornford's  car,  with 
himself  driving.  After  that  I  confess  that  I  slunk  off.  They're 
all  right,  I  know,  but  it  didn't  feel  like  it.  There's  such 
cursed  finality  about  a  wedding,  however  easy  divorce  is  or 
may  become;  besides,  Dinny  is  not  the  sort  who  would 
take  someone  who  loved  her  and  then  let  him  down;  it's 
the  old-fashioned  'for  better  for  worse'  there,  but  I  think 
it'll  be  'for  better' — in  the  long  run,  anyway.  I  sneaked  out 
of  sight  into  the  orchard  and  then  up  through  the  fields  to 
the  woods.  I  hope  it  was  as  gorgeous  a  day  with  you  as  it 
was  here.  These  beechwoods  on  the  slopes  are  more 
beautiful  than  the  careful  beech-clumps  they  plant  on 
downs,  though  even  those  have  a  sort  of  temple-like  effect, 
in  spite  of  being  meant  as  landmarks  or  to  give  shade  to 
sheep.  I  can  assure  you  that  wood  about  half-past  five  was 
enchanted.  I  went  up  the  slope  and  sat  down  and  just 
enjoyed  it.  Great  shifting  shafts  of  sunlight  coming  in 
below  and  splashing  the  trunks;  and  ever-so-green  cool 
spaces  between — only  one  word  for  it,  holy.  The  trees, 
many  of  them,  go  up  branchless  for  a  long  way,  and  some 
of  the  trunks  looked  almost  white.  Not  much  undergrowth 


OVER     THE     RIVER  32! 

and  very  little  'life'  except  jays  and  a  brown  squirrel. 
When  you're  in  a  wood  as  lovely  as  that,  and  think  of 
death  duties  and  timber,  your  heart  turns  over  and  over 
as  if  you'd  supped  entirely  off  Spanish  onions.  Two 
hundred  years  in  His  sight  may  be  as  yesterday,  but  in 
mine  I  confess  they're  like  eternity.  These  woods  are 
no  longer  'shot,'  and  anybody  can  come  into  them.  I 
suppose  the  young  folk  do — what  a  place  to  wander 
about  in,  lovering!  I  lay  down  in  a  patch  of  sunlight 
and  thought  of  you;  and  two  small  grey  wood-doves 
perched  about  fifty  yards  off  and  talked  cosily  to  each 
other,  so  that  I  could  have  done  with  my  field-glasses. 
Willow-herb  and  tansy  were  out  where  trees  have  come 
down  and  been  cleared  away — foxgloves  don't  seem 
to  flourish  round  here.  It  was  very  restful,  except  that 
one  ached  a  bit  because  it  was  green  and  beautiful.  Queer, 
that  'beauty*  achel  Lurking  consciousness  of  mortality, 
perhaps  knowledge  that  all  things  must  slip  away  from  one 
in  time,  and  the  greater  their  beauty  the  greater  the  loss  in 
storel  Mistake  in  our  make-up,  that.  We  ought  to  feel:  The 
greater  the  earth's  beauty,  the  more  marvellous  the  screen 
of  light  and  wind  and  foliage,  the  lovelier  nature,  in  fact — 
the  deeper  and  sweeter  our  rest  in  her  will  be.  All  very 
puzzlingl  I  know  the  sight  of  a  dead  rabbit  out  in  a  wood 
like  that  affects  me  more  than  it  does  in  a  poulterer's  shop. 
I  passed  one  as  I  was  going  back — killed  by  a  weasel;  its 
soft  limpness  seemed  saying:  'Pity  I'm  dead!'  Death  may 
be  a  good  thing,  but  life's  a  better.  A  dead  shape  that's  still 
a  shape  moves  one  horribly.  Shape  is  life,  and  when  life's 
gone  one  can't  see  why  shape  should  remain  even  for  the 
little  time  it  does.  I'd  have  liked  to  stay  and  see  the 
moon  come  up  and  peer  about  in  there,  and  slowly  fill  it 
all  up  with  ghostly  glistening;  then  I  might  have  caught 
the  feeling  that  shape  lives  on  in  rarefied  form,  and  all  of  us, 
even  the  dead  rabbits  and  birds  and  moths,  still  move  and 
have  their  being — which  may  be  the  truth,  for  all  I  know 


322  OVER     THE     RIVER 

' 

or  ever  shall.  But  dinner  was  at  eight,  so  I  had  to  come 
away  with  the  light  still  green  and  golden — there  flows 
alliteration  again  like  a  twopenny  brookl  Outside,  on  the 
terrace,  I  met  Dinny's  spaniel,  Foch.  Knowing  his  history, 
it  was  like  meeting  a  banshee — not  that  he  was  howling; 
but  it  reminded  me  sharply  of  what  Dinny  has  been 
through.  He  was  sitting  on  his  haunches  and  looking 
down  at  nothing,  as  dogs — especially  spaniels — will  when 
things  are  beyond  them,  and  the  one  and  only  scent  is  no 
more,  for  the  time  being.  He'll  go  with  them,  of  course,  to 
Carnpden  Hill  when  they  come  back.  I  went  up  and  had  a 
bath,  and  dressed,  and  stood  at  my  window,  listening  to  the 
drone  of  a  tractor  still  cutting  corn,  and  getting  a  little 
drunk  on  whiffs  from  the  honeysuckle  that  climbs  and 
flowers  round  my  window.  I  see  now  what  Dinny  meant 
by:  'Over.'  Over  the  river  that  she  used  to  dream  she 
couldn't  cross.  Well,  all  life  is  crossing  rivers,  or  getting 
drowned  on  the  way.  I  hope — I  believe — she's  touching 
shore.  Dinner  was  just  like  dinner  always  is — we  didn't 
talk  of  her,  or  mention  our  feelings  in  any  way.  I  played 
Clare  a  game  of  billiards — she  struck  me  as  softer  and  more 
attractive  than  I've  ever  seen  her.  And  then  I  sat  up  till  past 
midnight  with  Con,  in  order,  apparently,  that  we  might  say 
nothing.  They'll  miss  her  a  lot,  I'm  afraid. 

"The  silence  in  my  room,  when  I  got  up  here  at  last,  was 
stunning,  and  the  moonlight  almost  yellow.  The  moon's 
hiding,  now,  behind  one  of  the  elms,  and  the  evening  star 
shining  above  a  dead  branch.  A  few  other  stars  are  out,  but 
very  dim.  It's  a  night  far  from  our  time,  far  even  from  our 
world.  Not  an  owl  hooting,  but  the  honeysuckle  still 
sweet.  And  so,  my  most  dear,  here  endeth  the  talel 
Good  nightl 

"Your  ever  loving 

"ADRIAN." 

THE  END 


PR 

6013 
A5 
08 


Galsworthy,  John 
Over  the  river 


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